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page 12
* The rose I planted, that afternoon I came home from his burial, twentyfive years now and counting – ‘dad’s rose’ I call it and it straggles a little on its thickened stock pruned without skill over those lonesome years; but still, a light pink shows through the greening buds and the opened flower will be a rare and lilac-blue with a scent to die for… * Dusk – and compline; from the darkening valley comes the sudden nunc dimittis servum high-pitched cry of the curlew, and I see monks of those far-off dimly-lit centuries long gone, rise free of the demands of this day’s wanting and turn to spread great grey wings, according to your word, in peace… 10
page 13
* The wild meadow is awash with a yellow spray of buttercups; swallows, that come swooping low over wind-blown grasses, are shearwaters banking over life-giving waves; in the deep meadow, there are bubbles of lush white and purple clovers; the chick skylarks lurk like secrets not yet told; the roadside ditch, in feisty commonness, swells exotic; as if, after all the years, I had forgotten how a life will drift past such familiar things and now, the wind set fair, I am an ageing tar whose craft lies rigged and waiting in the harbour… * You were painting the old red gate in Drumkeelanmore a more vibrant red; I was watching you from the house and my heart was singing Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’, when a red squirrel, with its warm-rust, fire-brick body and its terra-cotta dust-fine tail, came tick-tack down the eucalyptus tree and out onto the lime-green lawn, survivor, nervy, bold; against the white canvas of the wall, the ruby and magenta hollyhocks you planted were a painting by Matisse, so that I offer you, with love, this glass of gold-white wine, in honour… 11

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* The rose I planted, that afternoon I came home from his burial, twentyfive years now and counting – ‘dad’s rose’ I call it and it straggles a little on its thickened stock pruned without skill over those lonesome years; but still, a light pink shows through the greening buds and the opened flower will be a rare and lilac-blue with a scent to die for… * Dusk – and compline; from the darkening valley comes the sudden nunc dimittis servum high-pitched cry of the curlew, and I see monks of those far-off dimly-lit centuries long gone, rise free of the demands of this day’s wanting and turn to spread great grey wings, according to your word, in peace…

10

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