Dusk, stretching too far inhabits her thoughts,
waved madly, to shoo a fading dream.
Tip-toeing dappled pathways drawn by light
in dimming hours…eager shades swallow
widening expanse, gaping empty swell
they peek-a-boo trellised gate peering
to find her perched nearby a stone well.
Small palm around coins close, clenching tightly,
merely a copper shy of casting wish,
she awaits patiently, perhaps for cues
heartfelt prayer alone will be enough….
Yet, tradition vies for honoring dues.
Beneath burnished sphere of Traveler’s moon,
faint gypsy tune scales crumbling garden walls.
Deeper breaths fan lashes brushing hopes seal
Tossing them gently over her shoulder,
moments splash, echoes passing lifetimes falls
lived between pale hours at pulsed beats.
He had always shared his soulful songs
they spoke of life and lonesome calls to roam
warmth of family hearth, of heaven sight
whose haven was a means of going home
guardian Angels guiding healing steps
inspired notes played long into night.
Troubadour he is, this son of Eire
faithful companion through lonely watches
soulful stories shared in fires sight
through clever rhyme, or lyrics captured
spills laughter from faces tendering light.
Eyes open taking in emerald wing
grown in bright clusters four petaled luck,
Shamrocks thriving where once he stood to sing,
soothing balsam for this place set apart
in a world that too oft had forgotten,
to listen for music, of its own heart.