AT MANOR KILBRIDE
I’m hopping from stone to stepping stone,
slick green algae on the boulders
and the foaming stream around.
It’s not deep,
but those rocks are lethal.
Late spring, sharp Irish cold.
On the far shore, so I dream,
is a lean saint holding a palm branch
and a Chinese poet, porcelain-white belly, sunk in contemplation.
An idealized landscape.
On the far shore
is a muddy footpath
winding past low alder scrub.
Your voice at my shoulder,
‘we’ve forgotten the sandwiches.
We’ll have to go back.’
The hardest part is negotiating the turn.