Home and far from home
where time moves like a breeze
stoned on nectar, I drift among the chatter
of tea cups and charming stories.
Clocks fold their hands, light smug
as a cat lies on the sill,
lace curtains yawn in the window,
the essential stamp of departure
inked on my soul at birth sleeps through
the tick and hum of an Irish summer;
what happened to the sharp stone
I always carry in my shoe
when I’m here? Too much loveliness
rots the mind,
one grows soft in the head,
forgets why one left in the first place.