His wrinkles went somehow deeper
than those of a national will do.
And his eyes were somehow darker -
not without a brightness in them -
intelligence behind a film, foreign repose.
I saw from the hood on his red coat
that he was passing through the land
not that the coat was novel or strange
his hood was tighter, more practically donned.
His whiskers were somehow thicker
scratching the surface of the Great Land
a beard from three days’ unshaven growth
the stubble, wisdom of an Englishman.
Far different than I, not better, but old
emotions just a hair deeper hidden
than mine were: shivering in the cold.
I knew from his voice, his language:
mine was his, mine the younger.
A shaman with a home on the Eire
though not from that verdant spot
souls are all equal, nation matters not.
An infusion of Alastair’s yarrow root
diluted in cold, sprayed sea water
coaxed home to the waves the sunlight
our trust and a handshake.