Dec 2023
FOOTSTEPS SET IN TIME
the lightness
of your footstep
as you hurried to me
caught
in the slowly setting
concrete you didn’t see
holds your fleeting love
permanently
your footsteps greedy for me
paying no attention
to the world
whatever
only knowing that
in a few footsteps more
you would be precious
and adored for who you are
your footsteps
still exist
echoing inside my tears
as I put my next step
inside yours
and the snow
fills
the other footsteps up
*
My little girl forever running to me and delighted that daddy is home. Footpath? What footpath!
In the Tales of the Boyhood of Fionn, that Irish icon of long ago legend and myth, there is an interesting debate among Fionn and his friends as to what was the finest music in the world:
“Tell us that,” said Fionn turning to Osin.
“The cuckoo calling from the tree that is highest in the hedge,” cried his merry son.
“A good sound,” said Fionn. “And you, Oscar,” he asked, “what is to your mind the finest of music?”
“The top of music is the ring of a spear on a shield,” cried the stout lad.
“It is a good sound,” said Fionn.
And the other champions told their delight; the belling of a stag across water, the baying of a tuneful pack heard in the distance, the song of a lark, the laugh of a gleeful girl, or the whisper of a moved one.
“They are good sounds all,” said Fionn.
“Tell us, chief,” one ventured, “what you think?”
“The music of what happens,”
said great Fionn,
“that is the finest music in the world.”
And so as it happens is the music of my little daughter back from shopping with her Mammy and running to hug me...and not letting a new laid path stop her...her footsteps slowing down until I pluck her from there and hoist her in the air. Her little kisses and joy the only music in all my world. Could any man be richer than I with the music of what happens.
the lightness
of your footstep
as you hurried to me
caught
in the slowly setting
concrete you didn’t see
holds your fleeting love
permanently
your footsteps greedy for me
paying no attention
to the world
whatever
only knowing that
in a few footsteps more
you would be precious
and adored for who you are
your footsteps
still exist
echoing inside my tears
as I put my next step
inside yours
and the snow
fills
the other footsteps up
*
My little girl forever running to me and delighted that daddy is home. Footpath? What footpath!
In the Tales of the Boyhood of Fionn, that Irish icon of long ago legend and myth, there is an interesting debate among Fionn and his friends as to what was the finest music in the world:
“Tell us that,” said Fionn turning to Osin.
“The cuckoo calling from the tree that is highest in the hedge,” cried his merry son.
“A good sound,” said Fionn. “And you, Oscar,” he asked, “what is to your mind the finest of music?”
“The top of music is the ring of a spear on a shield,” cried the stout lad.
“It is a good sound,” said Fionn.
And the other champions told their delight; the belling of a stag across water, the baying of a tuneful pack heard in the distance, the song of a lark, the laugh of a gleeful girl, or the whisper of a moved one.
“They are good sounds all,” said Fionn.
“Tell us, chief,” one ventured, “what you think?”
“The music of what happens,”
said great Fionn,
“that is the finest music in the world.”
And so as it happens is the music of my little daughter back from shopping with her Mammy and running to hug me...and not letting a new laid path stop her...her footsteps slowing down until I pluck her from there and hoist her in the air. Her little kisses and joy the only music in all my world. Could any man be richer than I with the music of what happens.
