Well, apparently we are back,
it is at times like this I wish I
could bounce and land in the
country again on a farm like
the Isle of Innisfree bordered
by fields of trees for animals
and birds, far off mountains
with lakes tied to rivers, but
alas, the dream ends, reality
is a predator always stalking
the aspirations of innocence.
Returning is the nightmare’s
futile search for a stallion, it
ends with the dawning of a
realisation that if the horse
had bolted (the stable door)
she wouldn’t be out there on
on the craggy wastelands of
Connemara facing an Atlantic
wind with mane and tail hoisted
lamenting "Quarry Field Farm".