Pub in the Burren
The peat fire’s light casts shadow
on sorrow. The weary rinse ran red
in eyes that bled a soft and sorry hurt
that words bleeding freely return
to burn a honey glow around this tired old man.
Old men spill the hours one pint at a time.
An old jacket of fine but threadbare weave
a home to heaving sighs, enthroned
on his lonely stool, a heavy old unmurdered Christ
whose price of survival survives as soft hand
wringing pain, each swollen knuckle a bead
to be counted one pint at a time.
Birds play in a branch’s brittle grip
thoughts trip lightly enough in a mind
blinded by the airy light of memory sweetly
feeding sorrow, love aching for a place
of peace, a pair of long lost eyes
that are searched for one pint at a time.
He smiles, a honey soft smile that swells
his still gaze as she’ll lift from her cedar chest
a dress of fine light saturated fiber
held high against a window long shattered
that matters to no one but him
who recalls her one pint at a time.
This man’s heart floats as a fat bee
knee deep in the gold pollen of her honey
sung heart and the light from back then.
When light and where light weaves
its ever soaking edge on dreams
to be savored one pint at a time.
The hard time of work’s heavy hours
devours our soft edge and seals a deep
keep of dreams, memories and desires
a soft fire in the lonely minutes of a cold
old age. As a flooded town’s well
is a hole, so love to the young floods
woven where dreams edge in on soft time
under the shadows where it gathers
eyes grip at light's traction.