Archives for posts with tag: Ireland

Some hands know the soil.
They know what to do with it.
They’re not fine hands, clean hands, they’re rough and thick fingered and calloused but they bring life out of the black and keep a kind of order on the land.
They give firm handshakes.
And hold grandchildren carefully like they hold a china tea cup or a fragile flower.

(For Bob, who knew the land and its people well, RIP).

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Take the tram to town –
A pierced girl stands by the door ~
She’s reading Homer. 

‘Planes land and take off –
With millions of stories ~
Bringing people home. 

To the Motherland for a while –
It is clear that I must visit the Sea –

Pick up the familiar clasts and cast them into the surf –

The headlands that I can trace in my sleep, as familiar as the back of my hands (changing with age, wind and sun) –

The sound of the waves, hypnotic and addictive, never easy to leave –

Easier knowing they will always be there, indeed there will always be an Ireland, long after we are all gone.

   
   

Opening a book – 

Your city, coming to life ~ 

The world entire.

  

Virginia rain –

Like home, it falls on my face ~

But it’s not like home. 

Only with hindsight –
Realization sets in ~
Ireland’s night silence.

Sun God reaching down –
Ireland renewed once again ~
Giza’s empty plain.

‘Newgrange’

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Image courtesy of Dave Walsh.

Post flight, wait for bags –
The carousel, they arrive ~
Old nun, beside him.

He stays to help her with hers –
Why do we do that? Strange beasts.

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‘Tis a fine deluge –
Your darkness is now confirmed ~
The leaves will come back.

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