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Inis cealtra and Mountshannon
On the road that runs behind the harbour at Mountshannon,
Apples hang bountiful from high garden walls.
There are figs and grapes too
As we walk through a maze
Enchanted.
All these towns along the Shannon remind me of my childhood years
In Gardens lush with Fuchsia, hydrangea, climbing roses,
The old Refectory, church steeple, grey stone, mossy walls,
Walks across fields of soft sodden years
The earthy scent of the forest.
I almost expect my grandmother to be sitting outside a house
Knitting an Aran jumper,
Nut brown hands
Chatting with strangers
Passing the time of day.
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Inis Cealtra
A cormorant poised on a river marker,
Wings outstretched
As we say goodbye to Mountshannon
And I think of the saints who came to these shores
To Holy Island so long ago.
The round tower peak, still high amid Ash and Sycamore,
the ruins of a monastic site,
A place of peace on these lakeside shores
A place in my heart.
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