Posted in poetry

An Irish Walk

You could find them
If they were there,
Beneath the lip of the quay
Or amongst some moss
That’s found a footing in the stone,
Or in the damp crevices
Where mortar was.
The Truths, I mean.
The Reasons.
Some Assurance.
Something.
Even so,
There’s a fine spring chill
Carried on the breeze,
And the muted cheer
Of morning gray,
And voices
Lilting over the water
And down the lanes.
​And that’s enough for now.

Author:

I’ve retired after a career teaching law. I divide my time now between Athens, Georgia, in the States and the south coast of Ireland.

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