Ref[lections] / R[I]{ver} vs I[s]{re}land / Star[t] / Innocent Me

Lections that deflect certain

reflecting, certain aching:

moments of remembered innocence:

moments of

me, of tufted bad hair, and yet

good at the sane

time.

 

And where did it go?  Why,

in your 80 years

of pain, could you not have chosen

Brut Vintage?  Why did you choose to

Be, quite instead, a vintage

Brute, and of terrible hiding sort?  Why

could you not

have made of life

a life of sharing, of caring good?  Why

so much here

say, frustration

and fear?  Why so very faithless

amongst the beauty of being?  Why,

unhappy father, did you not learn

to cry?

 

And so there is nothing I can

do for you

now; nothing I

am able to weigh up – or even

down, as I stride with pride towards

the towns and cities that have

embraced and sup-

ported my being,

as you never

could nor ever did man-

age.

 

And so, with the help of other, I show

myself able to live

and love and strive and thrive

where you clearly, ash-skinned, just could

not.  And your sadness no longer does

sadden my soul: for I am learning so slowly

to be whole in the

glory of friends and

combatants, of

academic distinction, and

study and freedoms, and

leavened experiences

which render me, final, be-

hearted as

never you

ever had chosen to

libertise me.

 

 

And so I recover from the losses of

M, K and Claire,

even as I see much further where

really I must

dare.

 

And whilst the country of my birth will never be

that rock I now love, the country of

my rebirth shall the Ireland of

Claire

always feel,

see and

be my grandest place of

[h]ey!

 

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