A Cage To Hold My Dreams
Rainbowtime
Our love of life stems most from loving one
then arms outstretch as wide as canyons
we smile at strangers
as they pass along, more keenly does the eye
seek pleasured sights which never once before
knew bad from good
We see more clearly beauty in ourselves
when upswells of the heart are unconstrained.
I am a tune no woman plays with skill,
they try their best, and even more, my patience.
From them and all entrapments
I am free, no bonds or vows or chains of conscience
hold me. A fool I'd be to swop this freedom now
for currency in day-by-day decline.
And yet, when night descends, when waves
as dark as midnight gush and foam nearby,
when the wind howls softly at my window
like a grieving mother, I think of her,
for longer than I should, more fondly
than is wise, for she, like me,
has wings at her heels.
She is a train which never stops for passengers,
a flight-plan with no destination, she is
the dividing line between heaven and hell.
I know of men she has taken to both places,
heaven first for those who think
she loves them and hell thereafter
when they find she doesn't.
I was a boy of lively imagination and keen
enterprise. A beach-stone in my hand was
Aladdin's lamp, a floating leaf
the Santa Maria, bushes in adjacent fields were
armies primed for battle. But tonight I set aside
my fantasies, to enjoy the spirit-saving sweep
of God's invention.
Tomorrow she will join me in this land of myth
and mystery, of bards and chieftains,
of ruinous winds and weathered faces, and wisdom
so evident you would think Ireland
the breeding ground for cultured thought.
She will see the harsh Atlantic spit and roar
and bruise its knuckles on rocks which pass for
sleeping whales. Then, suddenly,
the wind will fall to murmuring, and waves as
clear as daybreak, as frail as a sickbed smile,
will stroke the beach and quietly turn over.
She will see Na Beanna Beola in all its glory,
and the big-breasted Mamturks covered with spring
heather and juniper, and the
freshwater lochs of the Maam Valley, home to
the kestrel and the sprightly sparrow.
She will laugh and point at the sea and collect
shells and make faces, the little girl within her
joyfully set free
And then, restored to elegance and refinement,
she will step into the sky, our time together ended,
for I am rain and she the golden sun
who helps me make a rainbow.
Like all great joys, one's rainbowtime is brief,
but memories made this week in Connemara shall
lend a summer glow to cruel winter
and keep this heart in wonder.
060404. Connemara
