Goodbye Lass
The falling notes rose,
My spirits,
A jig of Irish tunes,
Danced
And I walked on down the road.
Ireland
A quiet hold in her notes
Rises smoke soft
From earthen fairy mounds
And bogs and rivers
To raise our spirit…
Sirens of Laughter
What of the original eleven?
Ten riders lost in the swells of intemperate sea
Only one remains:
I stand
cliff edged.
A boatsman edging close,
to the cleaving line…
Epitaph of a Wayfarer Poet
There remains an antique land of polished green dreams beneath a mist,
thick and clean, where great blue flutes in waves of wind sweep a waltz of Irish rain across a rocky plain, to plunder dreams in greens:
It seems-
There came a lull from seven days of Irish rain
and though my boots still wet from journey’s gain,
this antique land yet plundered my dreams and on and on…
