Easter already
this year has slithered down the drain of time
where it will hide until Christmas
and have its babies

Fair or foul
we sail together
the breeze my captain
and I his willing servant
travelling where he wishes
escaped from the tree
but no free spirit
a happy captive
of the wind

We are all seeds
tiny grains of sand
lost on a desert wind
or so I understand,
on a hot afternoon
under a clear african sky
we blew into existence
God alone knows why

Connemara morning early
iron grey sky
scarping waves
of sharp and tempered steel
and a sun barely creeping
on peaty bog
and marshy sheep-shod field
here dwelt the silent ones
fertile gods of Erin's clan
who fed the earth
and coaxed the land
solemn faces watch us still
through smoky mist
on emerald hill

And the rain fell
grey through holes in a badly darned sky
which looked like it had seen better days
a coffee shop whine of grinding beans
mixed with the sound of irish voices
made a better day than the one forecast
and brought a little sunshine to my winter cup

Virginia,
bathed in the misty Ouse
overcoat pockets filled with the hard grey stones of life
dark rocks to match the shadows
of the mountain heaped upon her back
until she could not bear the load
so she swam, and did not leave a forwarding address
or bring a towel and sandwiches for a picnic

Galway's tears are grey
soft they fall upon her cheeks
scarred and rutted with her age
weathered by storms
kissed by the sea
a faithful and remembered love
he visits often
and tries to bend her to his will
but she is strong
resoulute she will not change
only time can rearrange her features
often she is mild
her temper only stirred by the restless wind
who is her neighbour
always rapping on the doors
of her crouched and hunkered homes
yes, Galway’s tears are grey
but her grassy smile is warm and wide
she gets into the bones of you
until you know that can never really leave her loving arms
and if you do, know a little of her will be coming too