Peace in the Pause

The North Atlantic
blew through me
one night, off
the Bay of Galway and
made of me a
tin whistle.

My air was
melancholic, with motifs
of homesickness,
of rootlessness,
an ache for an abiding city.

There was also
tones of ire, inspired by
men lost at sea,
fatherless children,
aching oceans, and
crosses, crosses,
cross.

Yet, you may have
heard, too, some
hope in the silence, some
peace in the pause.

Righteous Eire

Here in Eire, poetry
floats in the Guinness
and
is baked in the scones.

Ever emerald green and firm fences
edging the roads
make of me a verse
and yet I’m
not quite there:
sorting through the
grammar of bog and mountain,
coast and cill
working on the
vocabulary of
penny flute and dancing with a broom.

But this island is patient,
schooled in hedges.