Selected Poems
Iveragh
It was gentle summers, softened by sleep
and sounds of the sea. Ghost words fail
doubted into silence, dispelled by west winds
whispering past our open window.
There was smoke from turf carried home
palm sized and bricks bent for burning.
Cut from roundabout broken stone valleys.
It was peat perfume became intoxicating.
With heads held high, we wander
still drunk with history, folded
safe and quiet in our pockets.
We had something, others didn't.
Each of those days arrived brave enough
with slap shouldered, red jaunting cars.
Thoughts of dancing with the banshees
were never quite, out of the question.
No matter which way the walk was
all roads lead back to familiar places
as if we had lived there, all our days.
Maybe we had, in someone else's life.
It was then we knew
there was nothing
we could not do.
