WRAPPED IN THE WEST WIND

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The dark rocks of Donegal:  

not unlike my own country, although perhaps not so mountainous

(this is the land of my wife’s people).

a flinty lot we Celts; maybe this is why: looking out on this hard rock for most of our lives.

Back here for a few days, and overwhelmed immediately by the perfume of peat smoke (or turf as they call it here) lazily rising from every early morning chimney:

that sweet smell of forest and vegetation perhaps thousands of years old!   -

the mason building his dolmen; the scribe etching his letters as the priest dictates;

the warrior-farmers, sharpening sword and ploughshare, all peer out from these mesmerising plumes.

Back for the festival: bars bursting with banjo. bodhran, fiddle and flute:

9/8 time slip-jigging out from every door. The balladeers; the story tellers, with their druidic tales of princess and unicorn, battles and magic  -  the childrens’ eyes big as saucers (a few adult tears).

The Celtic family gathered again around the hearth, re-tapping the root, connecting

to a past that is always present for us  -

when we leave, we leave only in the sense that the river running through the village races away, yet remains the river running through the village.

the moon tonight

fit a fingerboard

what a banjo!

(after Sokan)