Florence Chard Dacey
Poet
I wake to
an empty field behind my house.
My cows have been stolen!
The farmer has wisely taken them
to the new field, new grass.
and left me bereft of the yearling's pale head
that was the last glow to fade at night.
Six cows on a hill were my closest,
constant company these first few weeks in Ireland
when I saw them from every upstairs window,
spoke my soft hello over the back stone wall.
Grass, hurry on now and grow.
Beasts, find your way back to me.
My cows have been stolen!
The farmer has wisely taken them
to the new field, new grass.
and left me bereft of the yearling's pale head
that was the last glow to fade at night.
Six cows on a hill were my closest,
constant company these first few weeks in Ireland
when I saw them from every upstairs window,
spoke my soft hello over the back stone wall.
Grass, hurry on now and grow.
Beasts, find your way back to me.
Old grave
marker faces up toward Dun Aonghasa
a Celtic fortress ringed with spiky stones eroding now.
A mottled bird plucks at the stony ground.
I sit on 350 million year old rock.
Faces of nations pass me by.
The young women who graciously
bought my ticket bounce up the hill.
and I am alone for a moment.
Peace out of the boulders laid down by ice.
Peace from the black and brown bird in search of life,
the small hidden ones whose voices rise green,
the dear Irish girl to be wed, whose bones are racked,
whose heart is pumping like a sacred spring.
Peace out of the horse Johnny who sweats up this hill.
Peace of the thatch and the old ramparts of warriors
given way to willow steamed and shaped to make
dark Brigid crosses and a cradle for the new one
awaiting birth in a world stripped of warriors.
a Celtic fortress ringed with spiky stones eroding now.
A mottled bird plucks at the stony ground.
I sit on 350 million year old rock.
Faces of nations pass me by.
The young women who graciously
bought my ticket bounce up the hill.
and I am alone for a moment.
Peace out of the boulders laid down by ice.
Peace from the black and brown bird in search of life,
the small hidden ones whose voices rise green,
the dear Irish girl to be wed, whose bones are racked,
whose heart is pumping like a sacred spring.
Peace out of the horse Johnny who sweats up this hill.
Peace of the thatch and the old ramparts of warriors
given way to willow steamed and shaped to make
dark Brigid crosses and a cradle for the new one
awaiting birth in a world stripped of warriors.
Pink
roses blooming now
above the worn rock wall---
The father musician, his hands on the banjo
steady as stone, from years of playing
closes his eyes to help hold up
his young daughter bent to her violin.
It is not perfect.
It is love.
above the worn rock wall---
The father musician, his hands on the banjo
steady as stone, from years of playing
closes his eyes to help hold up
his young daughter bent to her violin.
It is not perfect.
It is love.
Ireland
so beautiful
in your tree on the hillside,
your black lichen, black crows.
Your stone faces do not fall.
Your green seeps into damaged fingers.
It seals up the heart's broken valves.
Even the memory of chains
can be turned into music
and the old ones' stories hauled up
from the hidden well.
Coming home to your thorns,
your rain and rocky worn face.
Coming into the body of the sea,
the body inside everything
and the great silence rising
from the graves of paupers and kings,
I touch the thin veil between worlds
the wind never ceasing.
in your tree on the hillside,
your black lichen, black crows.
Your stone faces do not fall.
Your green seeps into damaged fingers.
It seals up the heart's broken valves.
Even the memory of chains
can be turned into music
and the old ones' stories hauled up
from the hidden well.
Coming home to your thorns,
your rain and rocky worn face.
Coming into the body of the sea,
the body inside everything
and the great silence rising
from the graves of paupers and kings,
I touch the thin veil between worlds
the wind never ceasing.
