rolling hills, and roundabouts,
and fields, young shamrock green,
and clouds bulging with rain,
but which don’t burst, not yet,
just float indifferently
across a sky they shrink down
to a less unearthly size
a certain freshness coats the countryside,
makes leaves and flowers swell
as if they could transform;
yet nothing ever changes in this place
but seasons and short lives…
the silent, empty canal fleetingly reflects
the presence of a moping youth
with savage hair and florid words,
and anchored under weeping willows
lie the ghosts of drunken ships,
forever stranded here,
the lingering reminders of
a poet's season in hell
minutes, hours, days get stripped of meaning,
faded tunes echo from grey
and yellow rain-soaked stones,
and in the air hover the smells
of oven-roasted leg of lamb,
lush poetry, and gentle boredom,
and in the woods, if one gets lucky,
waits a faun to gently kiss awake
one's longings
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