POETRY

Resting at Cloghbrack

Each time we return to this place, it takes 
a day or two, for all the hairs to lie flat,
for dust motes to steady their suspension, 
to make new friendships of each other.

We are so busy, twenty-two years 
of perpetual motion can’t be set down
easily. Even here in the mountains, 
by the lake, there is a background, thrumming.

We do it for those first mornings away, 
the long pilgrimage to see early grass 
tussocks, punk hair that moves at ground speed, 
walking and breathing earth. The pleasure of 
watching reeds splay, spokes pinned in at the roots. 
To discuss the dormant copse of alder trees, 
those skinny witch legs in silver tights
that underestimate the brown reserve 
of brambles; a tangled frustration, marking 
undocumented boundaries. 

Place our feet into the palms of dock leaves, 
waiting to sooth. Crunch over the gravel, 
the never-there-before greyness of it.
Chase clover, low but refined, delicate 
fillers of negative space. Blow out 
the rose bay willow herb; ghost dry remains
of last year. Address the fuchsia, knowing
confidence in brush shelter, who answers   
dangling charms. Pay our respect to holly 
and ivy, those consistent over-reachers.

Each time, the walls give way and stone homes 
to those that lean in. Honour the corrugated roof, 
that lovely bank of contrast on a green hill.
The clouds are changed but still here. 

Each time we return to this place, it takes 
a day or two, for meals to stop rostering,
for bird calls to break loose over cards, 
to resist the urge to look back.