Winter Trails

Piano Evening

'It is a soft evening,' a Kerryman might say,
as slow drizzle falls straight down on bare head.
In Southwest, a crack of afterglow remains
of a day, which had its winds and downpours.

I have clean hands and my fingers remember
tenderness you never really asked of me
since those singing days so long ago
that only a grey ship could reach.

I sip a little port in case of teacup storms,
dropping anchor back in the quay of See,
dock-gazing beyond seal-way's tonal swell
to blue remnants where cold notes huddle.

......