It was dull and gloomy
heading west through Wales.
The last run towards Anglesey
looking down towards the coast
a strip of brilliant sunlit blue
wide and deep enough to swallow thousands
of armies and more rewarding
than blood red streams and pools
of oil and poppies in Iraq and Afghanistan.
It may be Yeats
(but I doubt it)
or the Laurie Lee essays I brought
but Ireland does move me to write
of charred sausages
microwaved colcannon
apple tart and Maud Gonne.
Celebrated Autograph Tree
- more trite bark than bite.
Ne'er a swan of any sort in sight,
the lake is low and peaceful though.
I cast a cool eye on life on death
try to forget the Ford Focus
with leather seats mark you.
Driver pass by.
