A weekend at Ballinacloona

spending a weekend with friends in Ireland – a time when we could travel

slow down, she says, we’re nearly there,

past that bend, that’s Ballinacloona.

the house stands half buried, the slope

behind a barrier muffling

tyre sound from the road, a windbreak too,

keeping warm Da Vinci’s Irish brood:  

Eabha, capturing human forms

eye lensed true through her Hasselblad;

Dalaigh, wigged, Dublin seated

dispensing judgement, lauded much

at the bar for his singing prowess.

this is my family, she states;

three years a nanny to their children,

the youngest, Ronan, I could call mine!

we feast on pea soup, thick chunked bread,

then salmon, string caught each morning,

bedded with potatoes, roasted long,

and a slothful, sensuous white

bonding spice and speech, fortifying

us for the night’s final reverie

when we retire to the orangery

glasses brimmed, apple crumble steaming,

and ranged in front of the burner

sing in turn of love, loves lost,

hearts emptied, the rapt fire forging

another truly resilient bond.