Here the stone walls wait for you
The trees are breathing softly,
Water still flows from the small spring
by the side of the house.
The whitewashed walls have kept
the shining image of your soul,
and the blue green front door
has remained holy with your touch.
I peer in the kitchen window,
searching for the fifteen year old boy
who went to seek his fortune in Glasgow.
The chairs are gathered somberly around the table,
the stone floor remembers your footsteps
measured with patience and truth.
From the front door the anguished fields stretch towards Kiltyclogher.
Your lost years are here on these fields,
amongst scant grasses, and the searing light of whin bushes,
along lacey meandering lanes the outline of whitethorn hedges,
and the slow moan of the wind through hay-fields that wait,
and beneath the grief of wild geese you still run,
breathless, intact, windswept, indomitable.
When you faced the firing squad at Kilmainham
this place remained
whispering in the sap of your blood.
By Nora McGillen, Shannon Oughter, Sligo, email: firstname.lastname@example.org