I left a poem for you there

between boards and knotty wire

near where there used to hang some family’s door.

It’s a quiet place in winter

lots of rain at first spring

can’t recall now any words my hand implored.

But if you’re riding a bicycle

or running through those hills

 

look for a worn grey shack no one calls home anymore.

The past waits in patience like

the brown mare waits for sole traveler cresting

before crossing the ancient stone bridge to the other side.

Words like photographs fade over time

—as all things of significance do

And our intentions do flutter

silent with the wind

still will our presence linger

through grace through seasons of sorrow.

O it’s alright

if neither ever makes it back

to roam the green hills

o’er the misty Gap of Dunloe.

We were there once

and long after we’ve gone others

follow and they will linger too

as they wander into

the mystery of tomorrow.