O darling time
Where have you taken me
To the joy of a young man cutting turf
To the ghost of my father
Through the lowlands and foothills
A strange moving light
A storm over Glen of Imaal
Through the miles
The rocks of bawn scattered in the
Charcoal hills
To the ruthless winds that cross the
Barnbawn bog
A soliloquy of the heart
A look of love
In the hardmens’ eyes
In the soft damp steps of the fàl
Cut of ode
When I was younger
When love meant something to me
When I let the Siscín go
And heard her sing
To the call of its “tew”
And deeply forked tail
To her long pierced eyes
Did I listen
By the cross of Spancil Hill
In the dark-green hills of Killaloe
Where I saw you wash your wings
In the belly of a soft worn stone
As If water could ever
Hold you
An aria
On the Linnet’s face
The harmony of rain across the glen
A rapid “vist” from the Meadow Pipit
That comes and goes
That holds the heights
Lovers singing over yellow whispers
To the lingering Ling
Perch in
My refuge
Perch in my arms till the storm creeps
Over
Till the wild grass settles
On the Glen of Imaal
Whisper softly my darling
Like a murmuration
In flight—that is a prayer
Like the cold wind
Listens to the road
So do I
.
