My friend of 15 years and I
meet
to walk
in Kells Garden, South Kerry.
Her daughter has come
to collect
pinecones she calls acorns,
to gather
in pocket and hood
to count
on kitchen table.
(47).
 

Really
to talk
girl’s day out,
to swap wedding plans,
who’s moving home,
who’s moving away.
 

To wander
ladies’ garden, which means
to grow
roses,
primaeval forest, which means
to plant
ferns,
dinosaur trail, which means

to carve
teeth and scale
on old tree.
 

To cross
rope bridge, which means

to dream
to join
the air
between two points.
 

I stop
mid-way.
Weightless.
Nowhere. Everywhere.
Existing. Effortless.

 

No girl, no lady.
I stand
between two banks,
between the riverbed and sky,
being.
 

I did not craft the bridge,
but nor can I just walk across.
It is my work, I feel,
to feel, what is
to float.