Although I' m here in Donegal and not Yakima,
Washington state, or in Dublin reclining
On the Banks of the Grand Canal.
I feel a sense that Raymond Carver
And Patrick Kavanagh are here with me
Following the Ray River to the sea
Of this poem.
The winds sway the reeds reflecting
On the rippling water, on a bend a stream
Flows into the Ray, cascading on the rocks.
I love the music of this place, the silent
Harmonies of the source, the spring;
Falling from high on Muckish Mountain
To where I sit translating nature to poetry.
Further on another stream flows in ever
So quiet, secretly subtle, like the clarity
Of wonder in the undercurrents.
Im here at the sea, the reservoir.
Tory Island looms black, remote above
The wild white waves, poetry echoing
Across the golden strand.
The colours of a rainbow rise from the sea.
The intangible essence that lingers here.
The blending colours fade to blue
And I feel a slight tingle on my fingers.
I look down to see a multi coloured spider
Crawling across my hand and the open
Pages of this notebook, as if that
were its only purpose.
If you've any comments on his poem, Adrian
Fox would be pleased to hear from