A blackbird thrills, a cuckoo in the distance.
The air full of the sound of children playing,
shrieks and squeals! An aroma of baking –
I was always patial to honey cakes and ale,
it wasn’t only dry bread and lumpy buttermilk –
though not in my wildest dreams could I have
conjured such a feast!
A different feast the shimmering birches,
apples trees with their tiny pink purses,
lily pads – quiet with promise.
Echoes of me in the silence, a circle of oaks,
clumps of sun-loving dandelions, my triple face
engraved in stone, a table made for sharing,
a ready fireplace.
What a Godsend! a woman exclaims, falling
into step: who’d have thought you could take
a couple of old fields, turn them into this!
She gestures towards the locán, a moorhen
skirting the reeds, towards woodlands,
a sundial where I cast no shadow.
Makes you think of Brigit and her cloak.
She turns to go – stops. That’s a lovely cloak
you’re wearing yourself! D’ye mind me asking
where you got it? I finger the crimson weave –
see it stretch, spread; recall a chieftain’s
dumbfounded face: That’s a long story, I laugh,
a very long story.
