Academic journal article Transnational Literature

Connemara Dreaming

Academic journal article Transnational Literature

Connemara Dreaming

Article excerpt

Small bogs pockmark a shiver of green fields.

It's cold, and I'm perched on a rocky mound

Just where the mist begins to thin.

Where the slope ends, old sheep bones

Jut out; a tiny feather or two, caught on a ribcage,

Tremble with the wind.

I lean forward into the day.

Somewhere, further into the mist,

Is the coast.

I strain to hear any of its language,

That deep ocean swell coiling

Into small inlets, tide at first

Seeping in, almost silent, then thickening

The raucous, insistent cries

Of gulls; drone of a motor

Boat, engine suddenly revving. A ferry

Further out to sea, returning from one of the islands,

Its wake trailing memories. But here,

A different tide, black-faced sheep,

Quiet on the soft, moist turf, nibble at the grass.

I want to stay, drink in the green,

Dissolve into the mist, to run with the clouds

On tops of mountains, to rest my body,

dwell awhile, soothe a deep ineffable divide within me, an exile. …

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