Introduction to Woods
Burnt Church, New Brunswick

I want you to feel the wildness
of a Canadian forest
that frightened your father.
The fear of getting lost,
the fear of feral animals and of trees.

No trees in Connemara,
not like these!
Dry twigs snap underfoot,
over-grown paths scratch,
branches whip back as you walk quietly,
listening to the forest.

We make our way
to the turbulent brook,
careful, once there, to hold onto something
as we lower our feet into icy water to be tickled;
massage by quicksand.

On the way back,
a stop to eat berries
and examine moose tracks in the dirt
while mosquitoes get high on untainted blood.

Later to take refuge on a sea breeze
out of the enclosure
and onto the waves of the Atlantic,
yes, the same Atlantic,
rocking as the wind picks up to a storm.
Waves break high on the boat deck
as they do over the promenade in Salthill.

Then motor broken down,
we are stranded out at sea,
rain comes down in sheets onto your slim
bathing-suited forms, while an uncle
gives you rum for warmth. Ride it out
until a tug is sent to the rescue.

I watch the wildness take hold,
the power of the untamed catch.

* * *

Colours

You left the institutional green,
the vases of cut yellow mums,
the polished floors and silver,
the gold of the sacred symbols.
“I never wear black”, you said
when we met long after.
“It has never suited me.”

* * *

Among Stones

Inis Cealtra, Lough Derg, Clare

They want to keep me,
these stones
inside the half-there,
gone from the shoulder up,
sanctuaries of air.

We feel the bones
beneath our feet.
They are our ghosts,
life to come,
healing in limestone slabs.

Here no self flagellation –
only nettles to nip our ankles
between walls still standing.