Lough Gur, Co Limerick
A poem’s appearance is of little consequence
But the moon was sad as only the moon can be.
Men in tears seek to flee the nightmare of their lives
We dream that with fingers we can pluck guitars
The calmness of flowers, the depths of moments,
The completeness of a live birth;
White sobs slide into our eyes
Remembering the smile of a mother, a lover,
On the fortunate day of our first kiss.
The past is a magnet, for me,
Drunk, with all the heady scents of sadness,
ingrained into the DNA of the everyday
Gathering dreams is the heart of the matter.
Eyes riveted on a stranger’s eyes
The mouth moves but I hear nothing
I see her eyes blazing, her hair just-so.
In the street, neat, complete,
She remains the mistress of horology
And in the evening, she skips the light fantastic
On the lawn where I once saw a fairy cry bitter-bitter tears
For the beautiful sleep-spoiled child she had once been.
She kept her eyes tightly closed and saw only
Snow white bunches of fragrant stars.
From afar, they sing. as only faery rings do.