My Travels
Your eyes are moors.
Your hands are angels.
Your hair is Autumn.
Your lips are frosting.
Ireland
A quiet hold in her notes
Rises smoke soft
From earthen fairy mounds
And bogs and rivers
To raise our spirit…
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…
