Is minic a bhí cú mall sona.

A slow dog is frequently happy.

 

gartan clay in hand

round, white as chalk

flour formed by masons

into loaves

customary of pilgrimage.

it is given

unbaked. we leave with this

good to have in case of

hard days, guaranteed

grace before the strong running tides

the dog-winds that warn before storm

a crack of light. a rainbow

over blue stack mountains

as we are getting back

           

but not home

until we find where eithne

gave her son up to twin kingdoms of

adventure and loneliness. a poet's life

 

the path nearly overlooked in a moment

of whole-souled conviction: we are looking

for the white dove

equally insistent a collie more companion

than guardian of land or woolly beasts

barks and yelps at us, three lost

and doubting magi down toward the field

the well, the poet's bed. happy

with his guests, he gives us

rhythmic laps, like a falling tide,

before releasing us to dream anew