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.