To Saorsie

 
Written by Rick Summat |
Published on:

To Saoirse

 

As winter yields
and April fades to May
the lengthening days
awaken cigarette haze
and Tullamore Dew

cloaked memories
of that summer we shared
on Árainn Mhór:  

 

You lying in the sun
reading the thickest books we found
yellowing in a Dungloe shop window;
illustrated Life of Brian scripts,
The Last Temptation of Christ,
you liked them both –
and you, an atheist.

 

Naked splashing

in a spring-water rock pool
warmed in the sun
flushed by the tide.

 

As the Earth turned slowly
and seeming timeless
campfire evenings
stretched tilting –
tilting into darkness

I drank too much ‘Tullamore’

and you sipped rum.

 

You lying on talc-soft 
passionate sand
beneath a parasol,
a wisp of gauze draped –
for decency’s sake –
casually across your thighs,
captivated me.

 

You laid aside

‘The Last Temptation’

as I walked toward you
and I swear to God,
that in your face
I saw the face of God.

 

And your welcoming smile
was His smile
and your wide-open arms
were His arms
and your acceptance of me
was His acceptance.

 

I hope I’m not disturbing you,

I had to speak to you again.

 

Straight from the ferry from Burtonport 
I hired a bike and rode past Lough Shore

to the old lighthouse

where you spent long hours
painting your watercolours
and wanted to settle
but the cancer feasting on you
devoured you

 

I buried your ashes
in the amphora

you brought from Syria -

planted an asphodel
and inscribed a memorial
on a flat chalk stone,

 

“Here lies my brief miracle.”

 

Weathered by winters
the inscription is faded.

 

I sit drinking rum –
it tastes of your hugs
embraces my soul
you are near

you are

so very near.

 

I will go to the shore
to find another
white soft-stone marker,
and on it I’ll write,

 

“Tread gently... Saoirse dreams here.”

 

Copyright © SodaCoffee.com

Form of Poetry

Free verse

Author: Rick Summat
Performance poet, have been a pastor, preacher, paper boy, full time lone father of seven.

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