Saturday, July 24, 2004

In the Glen of the Swallows (poem)

We walked hand-in-hand from the gull-shrieking sea,
until deep in the glens, with the city forgotten,
we lay down in the summer grass, all abuzz with bees,
watching the cloud shadows sweep lazily over the mountains,
over the rounded, ancient, green and saffron mountains.
How could anyone not love Ireland? you breathed,
and you leaned over me then and smiled into my eyes,
And won't you miss us when you leave, both Ireland and me?
You touched my lips softly with your cool slim fingers,
in benediction and farewell: exile, all the many passing years,
how that moment stays with me, how it still brings tears.