A goal, not a gaol

I now have a goal,

not a gaol 

any more.

My goal is to do 

well enough in my studies

in Liverpool to

one day be able to work and

play and joy again in Dublin

across the skies and

water; for I am a

writer, 

academic and

photographer: and

where better place to be

all those things 

than the fair and handsome 

city of D.

And I say these things now 

because my

daughter did quiz

me about her creativity

and wonderful intelligences:

and she asked me what 

to do, what to choose, what

to be: and I told her: “Be

everything!  Be everything,

my love.”

And if still dearest C of my

favourite city D, you would 

just find it in yourself

to forgive my brutality,

the words cast like

stones at the bones of the

wicked, when you – my 

love! – I now do see was 

anything but 

wicked for me, then my

sorrows would dry up

and my tears would cease 

complete;

and in their de-

ceasing I would find the

life of my light 

illuminating the alleys

and streets of

my days.

And even if your forgiveness 

is never forthcoming, 

my apology will always 

lie there as a

truth of unerring quiver: 

as the quill and the pen of mid-

life confusion, serving once 

and again to sketch out so

plain the goodness of

awkward man I have 

always quite enigmatically

chosen and 

been.

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