above lough nafooey
"When the time comes"
What of that mountain ablaze beyond our window ?
Gorse, burning up the dark, so loud
we fear its crackle, hear its heat.
It spits out seeds that defy flame,
smuts of furze get washed into the stream's source
that tumbles down, picking up along the way.
whirligigs, caddis fly larvae, turf scent,
the luteus light of lesser celandine,
foxglove, that does the heart good just to look at.
It foams by the boundary of our land, so small,
yet there is nothing to stop it from thinking big --
from becoming ocean when the time comes.
Rushing under a bridge to a neighbor's field
down through bog tannin, it carries into the lake
before it takes itself to the river that flows
around the oarsmen, past the tea house at Menlo
under the Salmon Weir Bridge,
by the cathedral that still reels in the faithful.
It catches sight of the sea, boats by the Spanish Arch,
lets go of its name, heads out into the Atlantic, reaches
your coast with the memory of mountain, gorse, fire.
by Geraldine Mills
from "The Other Side of Longing"
copyright, 2011 by Geraldine Mills and Lisa C. Taylor