A Field Towards The Sea

Once, in a field towards the sea,
In a place where all fields are towards the sea,
Down from Mainister House on Inismore,
Four robins, one to each stone wall of the field,
Sang an ensemble piece.
Too far away to catch their colour,
By now I knew their sound.
Seated on a low, lapped grey stone
Skirted by an infinity of grey stones
In one field within a myriad similar fields
And dry-stone walls.
Visual sense so anaesthetised, I listen.
Nestled in the grey amphitheatre, I listen.
They say birds are oblivious
Of the pleasure they give us,
Their singing a territorial statement.
I do not believe it.
Myriad: literally 10,000,
From the Greek.
Frommer’s Guide claims 7,000 fileds.
Tim Robinson says 1,000 miles
Of dry-stone walls.
How many robins?