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.