From: Carty's Journal and Change in the Wind.
We crunched our way
across the frozen meadow,
two robots over wrapped
against the cold.
Surrounded by silent sleeping trees
and steamy breath, we plucked and picked
at the frozen ivy,
teasing its frozen tentacles
from the dark and cold Roscommon stone.
Our aunt had told us
that we would save the wall,
save it from the fate of older families
who had lived nearby, in now
humbled heaps of drawing rooms and kitchens;
upstairs, downstairs, all a-jumble,
piles of random dice tossed aside,
each settling a new insult, a new revelation.
Families bound by servitude and obligation.
Our white and pink child-fingers, like lepers at scabs,
worked until our breath
no longer steamed, and we stole away
to hide in the warm stables nearby,
where oppressed donkey-companions
observed our shivering bodies
with smug disdain.