IRELAND

rfmer@iol.ie

At lanes end.

We left the car at the top of the lane
so that you could walk, as if
you could, back
into your childhood.
You did not understand
as you do now,
that what we are
is all inside and moves
along with us:
but then, my eyes
could not see through yours:
my disbelief in spirits
leaving you cold.

Side by side we walked: I
on recently laid tarmac: you
on the ankle-wrenching stones
in the ruts each side
of the long grassy strip, meandering
like one of those fuzzy caterpillars,
around the distant bend.
Nor could I see the robin build
in the old discarded jam-jar
in the hedge: the briars
loaded with the fattest blackberries
that left you looking cyanotic:
the heady perfume
of woodbine in august:
the frozen winter puddles
crackling underfoot:
the tyre treads
of your father’s heavy
post office cycle
fossilized in mud:
nor could I hear the laughter
of your brothers and sister
break the silence,
running the last stretch
to the cottage
where you knew she was waiting,
sitting in the corner drinking tea,
watching the big pot of steaming potatoes.

But I did walk through the roofless remains
of Paddy’s shack: orphaned again.
Disturbing , that:
finding those letters from his sister
still in the drawer: small talk
but cherished nonetheless.
Something stopped me from keeping them,
reverence perhaps
to that disintegration.
I left the pages like fallen leaves
to the wind and rain - left them
where you left your name
for mine.

Ghosts, all ghosts, gone
like the field stolen by the fog
creeping in from the sea:
memories - mist on your eyes:
at lanes end.

© Copyright 01/10/97, Richard F. Meredith.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.