A washed out
Faded
Frost blue
Clarity of sky
Hurts the eyes
I study
Tall clouds
Sailing
Serenely
Far above scree grey Errigal
Like the fleece white rudderless bucking ships
Of Celtic saints
Returning from America
Other mountains shall burst the soft hulls open
Upon inland peaks
And cornices
To steal their cargoes -
The priceless gifts -
But just as quickly lose them
This coast is usually mild
Unlike green hedged Fermanagh
Soaked in fog and snow -
A distant whisper of breaking waves
Reminds me of my origins
On the western verge of Europe -
Here where every rock and stone is sacred
And sea birds cackle archaic hymns
To strange primeval gods
The wet sand reflects the sailing clouds
In a harsh white natural mirror
Dazzling in the low December sun -
I stand
Half blind
In the midst of this sea edged mirror
Not knowing if I am placed on solid ground
Or somehow locked in stasis
Between the earth and sky
A nostalgia for sacred places pulled me home
Much as the west wind drove the ships of the saints
Travelling east from Greenland -
The holds crammed tight with legends
But I cannot honour the memory of those saints
As I linger here close by the ocean edge
Muttering paternosters
More out of habit than any sense of wonder
The cries of the grey winged birds drown out my every word
Mocking me into silence
Their magic rules the air
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 27th. 2014 - January 13th. - 14th. 2015.
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