Never On This Cold Acre
Never on this cold acre, this . . . landing of soft green hills, have I ever known real freedom.
Alone, I take my hands and run them through the cool, wet blades of grass. I lay here
In morning affecting necessary introspection. For introspection is mine.
" God Holy Damn, but I better start writing this shit down!! "
" . . . Yes, tommy boy, you've work to do. "
Soft, slender moments, good soulful hidden masterpieces, these words. I construct them and
They become jewels. Jewels held in tightly against morning. Jewels meant to spring forth light.
And inside each, enlivened inner crystalline rainbows reflect in mirrors.
Ah, my senses. These abundant golden shadows dance for me. Multi colored freedom dance.
I must have more!
Searing breath of my lone existence, this erect palace where Angels dance for me,
Pretty, angelic, white gowned ladies move about me swirling in their gowns in the morning mist.
I am touched profoundly.
I place my fingertips into a bowl of cool water. I dance this brow, wiping away the formed sweat
Tears. And here I pray - in the moment.
And as the sun breaks through the Willows, I am duly reminded . . . I've got work to do.
tommy moran, Ireland, 2013