I ache to live with the land
at the mercy of storms
where fog tendrils and twists
and turf fires smolder through windows;
the earthy smoke stokes a homesickness
that consumes me.
The ocean calls and I pedal
to the lighthouse past the Gaelscoil
(where I hear mostly English)
and a worn-out church; across the lane,
a crowded famine graveyard preserves
the past – this island clings to life
by a spider’s thread. Rusty streams
cut through the bogs and tumble
onto the pebbled shore
under a fragile sky fading
from blue to grey. Low clouds
envelop me and I take refuge
in the pub. Two old men
in the snug, glasses half empty
silent head nod,
Dia duit. Seamus pulls a pint
of the black stuff; I wait
while it settles.
It is exhilarating
to wake with autumn’s hesitant light
and not yearn to be elsewhere.
