‘Flight From Avoca’
© Joe Canning 2016. All Rights Reserved.

March winds blow cold on the golden vale.
Biting is the chill that moves the thistle.
Content in this perfect isolation; I revel.
My mind is clear, free. I am no suffering soul.
Succour is mine. I feel a warming, perfect peace.
And though this day could skin a man, I feel no cold.

This morning I was in the company of friends.
I watched them closely for a while; closely.
I read their thoughts, I felt loved, truly loved.
I listened to their minds, their whispers, their kind words.
From here, I linger and watch again, but I must fly.
And though this day could skin a man, I feel no cold.

A robin joins me on this mossy Wicklow crag.
I converse with him as we view the Vale of Avoca.
I watch my friends below, in intermittent dispersion.
My feathered companion tells me the clouds are parting.
He is the chariot sent to take me home, I must fly.
And though this day could skin a man, I feel no cold.

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Photo: Avoca, Co Wicklow