Details |
Laura Naville Poem
“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!”
Copyright © Laura Naville | Year Posted 2019
|