Enchanted, and: Clear West

Enchanted

I drank a pint of stout with my dead dadin McGlynn's last night. He was singingwith the boys just like he did when I was a tot.He could do bawdy tunes with his brotherson Saturday nights and on Sunday mornings,tenor hymns. He never saw this land of his father's—never saw much of his father either. When I curled up

in the bend of his knees on the sofa, my Dad spunendless dramas of dancing bulls, sly Queens,simple princesses. A lone boy, he drank milkfresh from cows on the farm where he boarded.He told of new cow pies warming his bareboy's feet on frosty winter mornings.This may be why, when in the companyof these critters, I crow. Mellow cowsand their noble beaus, bulls, gentle in courtship—the cow always wills when. Their youngdart about with big eyes, new to the outdoors.Cows give wet kisses, warm milk, rhythmicallystreamed to stainless steel pails. It is their bad fortuneto be unable to bat flies from their eyes or scratchtheir behinds in the field, unless near to a rowan tree.Though common, they are Irish, these Joyceansilky kine—innocent nannies to humankind.

Like a rowan tree—he kept his family, receivedthe gold watch, was proud of his daughters—my little sister and me. My Dad did notcast a cold eye . . . on death. I promised himmy ashes, also, would be sprinkledwith wind, warbler, and buzzing bee,beneath the rowan tree, in viewof a grazing cow or two.

Clear West

When the air is right clear here        I hear gulls of Galway Bay.            When I let my eyes' curtains

            slip low, I see sea birds sail                over Moher Cliffs. I see them        stand, like centurions, face            to wind. I see them cruise                over Dingle's castles, as mist                    moves thru mountain passes,        settles in cradles of Connor's            crevasses, until hard rain gathers,                grows mountain rivers, driven                    to descend in cymbal crashes                        of Beethoven symphonies.        I see seagulls glide over stone-boxed            meadows where a confetti                of sheep slow dance in soft rain                    to rhythm of chomp, chomp-chomp.

When the air is right clear here,        this is what I hear,            this is what I see                to the east from                    my wood deck                        overlook on                            Long Island Sound.