chatting with Saoirse

A revised pome from me new book – chosen at random


as winter yields
and April fades to May
the lengthening days
stirred cannabis haze
and Tullamore Dew
tinted memories
of that summer we shared
on Árainn Mhór:  
 
you lying in the sun
reading the thickest books
we found yellowing
in a Dungloe shop window;
illustrated Life of Brian scripts,
The Last Temptation of Christ,
you liked them both –
and you, an atheist.
 
naked splashing
in a spring-water rock pool
warmed in the sun
flushed by the tide.
 
timeless campfire twilights
tilting into darkness
as the Earth turned slowly.
 
I drank too much ‘Tullamore’
while you sipped rum.
 
you, lying on talc-soft 
passionate sand
beneath a parasol
with a wisp of gauze draped –
for decency’s sake –
casually across your thighs
captivated me.
 
you laid ‘The Temptation’ aside
as I walked toward you
and I swear to God,
that in your face
I saw the face of God.
 
and your welcome smile
was His smile
and your wide-open arms
were His arms
and your acceptance of me
into your very self
was His acceptance.
 
I couldn’t wait to meet up again:
I hopped the ferry from Burtonport 
and rode my bike up past the Lough
to the old lighthouse
where you spent long hours
painting watercolours
and wanted to settle
but the cancer feasting inside you
consumed you
 
remember the day
I buried your ashes
in that amphora
you brought from Syria?
 
I planted an asphodel
and on a flat chalk stone
inscribed a memorial,
 
“here lies my brief miracle”
 
weathered by winters
the inscription has faded
no wording remains.
 
I’ll toast your health
with Captain Morgan.
it tastes of your hugs
it embraces my soul.
you are near
you are
so very near.
 
after the bottle’s done
I’ll head to the shore
to find another
white stone marker,
and on it I’ll write,
 
“tread gently for Saoirse dreams here.”

 

© coolhermit 2020
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