The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Beth Paulson
Day late to DUB
we strolled its streets
of booted girls, lads leathered
rejoiced with Joyce
passed PO bullet holes
bolted the Bar's bangers,
then bridged the Liffey.
What sounds resound for us
what Eire echoes—
city chaff and churchbells
or the quiet Kells?
What sights—the barren Burren
wools at Blarnha
or Wicklow's glacial gap?
Yellow gorse glow
or hedge-edged green fields
gray sheep graze
larches lurched by wind
wet heathered hills?
At Muckross we touched moss
rocks, sucked mussel
broth 'til light clocked
the blue lough. When
music began at Horgan's
we crowded in
to a grand mandolin
fiddle and flute
drank pints for who stayed—Slainte!—
and who emigrate.
Most people would just throw the thing away—
plaid flannel shirt with a three-corner tear
made by accident, moment of carelessness,
haste with a pen or run-in with a nail—
the shirt your husband wore you loved to touch
of soft Peruvian cotton, well-made and favored.
So you try to save what can be saved—
clothing, old houses, friendships, even a marriage.
With a fine needle and same-color threads
you carefully pick up and weave what's new
into what frayed, what's come undone.
Plying in and out with green and blue
you pull each small stitch firm but not too tight—
to repair a hole in anything
takes patience and desire to make it right.
Sometimes people throw what's good away.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication