Walking Together

You own me,

at least you hold

what Gibran called 'the shell

that encloses... understanding'

in your two cupped palms.

I feel trembling in your fingers,

and the perspiration of excitement

seeps through the membrane

around my body and soul.

When your heart beats fast,

its rhythm thunders through my bones

and my own heart,

catching the frequency,

pounds in time.

When you breathe softly,

in sleep or contemplation,

my soul, too, steadies.

Exhaling, I smile.

In step, we pace

the corridors of existence.

In step, we climb

the gentle green slopes to the crest of a distant hill.

Lá Fhéile Bhríde

The bells of St Brigid are calling tonight,

green rush crosses hang on kitchen walls

and warm glows light the windows.

Enter, Goddess... Saint.

Hang your cloak on a moonbeam.

Spring is here in longer days

and the yellowing of gorse in the valley.

Let the festivals begin: flowers, flames

and food;

fresh incarnations of old mysteries

where the blood of the

lamb flows in grotesque substitute

for the milk of the

ewe.

But spring stands for regeneration

whatever colour the candles

you light. And soon swallows

will return to rebuild nests

in the crumbling ruins of last year's shelters.