Are We Too Cold To Look Beyond

“Irish I am,” my mam speaks in hushed tones to the air She questions still, seeming to her alone Intones, “Ireland, O Ireland, what are you? Where do you keep yourself, so I may rediscover you?” Her speech unknown surely to her Rains down, trickles by, soaking into me Overcome with a rising wander-lust I pick my way between chill boulders and soft moss To reach my loch Rippling with the muddy scales, I clean each night Refusing me to forget her whispers My ancestor’s sage legends and advice One, I fear I may lose, for so many chance choices – I pray – I may never regret! Each breaking light, reaching in and around the leafy arms above I feel will enlighten my spirit, However, I miss something key in each moment At the closing of each pale tendril of gold on my eyes Shivering I wonder, what secret do I know that I forget? Am I too cold, in this wandering, to ever see beyond? Though I kin that it’s before me I find no understanding that I can grasp Where has my motherland’s fascination gone? At present, all’s weary mystery I shadow our animals, safe keeping in mind Watching, as the benevolent God, where the shorn dally Kept in time by the zephyr, wild trees harp As I garden, plucking fruit from their generous company I yet yearn to satisfy my simple mother’s request Afore I lay on my goose down Though pulling up wool covers, long past fiddles and dusk My gentle mam asks again the question One, that I thought, was not for me to overhear “Ireland, what are you? Where do you keep?” Mam winks, but am I to answer? No nuggets have I, for her! Solemn to scorn her merry temper, I laughingly declare – “I know not that I am as Ireland! As Ireland, is wrath to wreck compounded - on poor mans’ sins A rather spiritually devoid gift given to thirsty men – Accursed and ever accusing Perhaps keeping in the nature of harsh rock, stinging storm, rotten potatoes? Her crown bore down; I can just catch her brow– sorrowful She weaves to dailies and attending hardened pa, So shamed, shifting away, I turn in bed To retrace Mam’s faerie riddle – thatch above At last my folks lay in their fancies, all is quiet Unlike them, out of bed - I grimace– repentant feet on icy dirt below Admiring our blue china and grandma’s lace upon the mantle Both darken, as the embers crackle and I fade into dawn Spirited away by her darling, Aurora, I breathe deep Drifting leaves, like musty volumes of legend fall beside me Counting the pebbles childlike, avoiding each fall As blessed descendents, in same tradition will follow this path Before the loch Always before me, the loch Where is the key to satisfy my and mam’s forgotten secret? The winged daren’t answer, what the beast has been forbidden Scalies, like our domestics, too content, too present - to gaze about Ireland is a place, more beautiful in shadows Like a gaudy face in the dark, Made pleasant by simpleness The loch, I used to make my plaything when younger, This patch of loch, I make now a curb and mirror I am Irish, as my mam - herself accounted Are we too cold, in our wandering, to ever look beyond? I woke warm, beneath the down and to mother’s tender kiss “I ought to have known, – I chant to mam Yesterday I was not myself, but today I am. Tomorrow I will also be, because I will remember. The riddle you gave me is almost puzzled out!” “Ireland what are you? You query, Why, I am grace.” “Ireland, where can I find you?” I conquer on, her face forgiving Shining, I say “Where warmth weathers any benumbed or stony face!”