Off the coast of Connemara

We did not know it then,

we drove to the end of the world on a nameless peninsula,

a spit off the edge of Ireland, some cheap car we rented in Dublin, a stick,

we drove all day across that bumpy island with two whining kids in the backseat and angry autumn skies overhead

wondering what we’d done to ourselves and why.

We did not know it then and hardly do now,

the pearl in our discovery,

how that land and sky must look the same as it always has

with patches of light on those quiet barren hills,

the mottled rocks and moss, remains of the dead long since forgotten.

We did not know it then,

that it would stay in our hearts forever,

our memory unchanged as the place itself

though we ourselves would never be the same.



Categories: poetry, writing

Tags: ,

14 replies

  1. Ah, Ireland is on my bucket list.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Your words and rhythm create a patina you just can’t see in a Pinterest album of Connemara.
    But love that pic too.
    Thanks.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Having bumped through Ireland, visually drinking in 40 shades of green and 20 of gray, I can relate.

    BTW, I see a glorious picture with this post on the reader, but not on the site. Any idea what the deal is there? And was the glorious picture from your trip?

    Liked by 1 person

    • I know! I don’t know why that’s the case between Reader and the site. Not sure if it’s something I’m doing or a product of the different interfaces since I always post from my phone. Which is weird right there. The picture is a painting right? I love that painter, German I think.

      Like

  4. I am delectable and savory words, touching the soul like flower petals and hope I can explore your country someday, in a post COVID world. You brings such beauty in your description and what exploring worth an affair,

    Liked by 1 person

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