Ireland
Once I was in Ireland–
the most beautiful place
I can think of, on a farm,
In a bed-and-breakfast with
Stone walls and fireplaces.
Soft chairs, the phantom
twang of an Irish folk band
playing with the rhythm
of the sparking coal.
But the poetry
would not come.
After a day of haunting
enchanted ruins–
nothing.
Even with the twilight
and the barn cat mewling
outside, and the beautfiul
B&B owner’s brogue,
asking if there was anything
I needed. I should have asked
her to sit for me, in the firelight,
to tell her life’s story,
to let me hear the music
of her laugh.
The Sensitive, Bookish Type 