Without Title

I reached out with a hand to touch your long blond hair for the sky in your eyes and the sun in your heart, and the song on your lips was about our naked feet jumping on a moving hay cart strewn with rowan berries, corn stalks and golden wisps of wheat, starlings flew up into the high trees, premature apples fell ripe like galloping ponies on grass below the stepped vineyards grapes tightened in readiness to shoot juice into vats, gleaming funnels upon ships awaited the launch and your voice called up concord plenitude an orchestral tornado, rivers flanked by prairies those verdurous seas and gulls became fish, twinkling as they leapt above fine combed ridges. A single line railway, silver in the morphined morning Castlerock’s solitary road below rock mountain cascades of cold silk

Take away the winter and give us this autumn facing the bright amber sands, pale horse-herds of sea riding on the breaking ocean towards the shore and the fragility of ultimate confrontation Life loved as well as hated, lived fully and somehow endured a narrative exciting as a glimpse of feminine rotund Mussenden Temple. Binevenagh’s fissured hills of rock and our known faces Show me the high grassy summit in another flood that shakes the myth. So who could predict in a nondescript Gort hotel our sapling on a precipice at Thoor Ballylee; small towns Bellarena: swelling farmlands, cosy dwellings, real woods and a song under every tree beyond walled loneliness, oceans of grief, fiction. I can weep again but I don’t need to practise Show me the waltz, give me your beautiful buxom world, the final winning throw: it is not that one cannot abide but no, one cannot. This goes right on or this is the longed for close of life.