Lament for Old Things

The beautiful old buildings 

Are only for the cows –

And maybe the occasional ghost 

Who howls at the broken walls.

The living Irish make their homes 

In blank tan boxes, without history –

A bit like the faces of Irish girls,

So makeup-caked they all but disappear.

Prosperity has its dangers. This is one:

That you might lose that rugged detailing

That makes a house a house, a face a face.

Of course, it's not my business.

I'm a tourist here.

The houses weren't put there to please my eye,

And neither were the faces. Even so,

I see how wild the tameless landscape is,

And then how bland the village, and I sigh,

Lamenting a sad beauty that was never mine.