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.