The Golden Song
The Burren in September is a place of sharp edges and sudden silences, where the limestone karst rises from the floodwater like the broken teeth of a god, and the air carries the metallic, ozone scent of the tax boat arriving early, a small vessel that cuts the grey water with a violence that unsettles the cattle on the shore. Maire Kavanagh stood at the edge of the stone country, her boots...
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