Distant at first, the slap tap-tapping
of shoes clicking hardwood clacking
the floor of a dance hall absent
Stop, and swallow the rising and falling hills with your iris.
Feast on a slow setting Connemara sun.
Small at first, the rushing of the
breeze blowing blades into
a frenzy of perpetual rolling green.
Swallow, and take a mental note;
mist from the sea on buds of tongue.
Microscopic, they bountifully burst with
Aran Islands flavors, facing westward towards
the Atlantic, floating an arm’s length from the Bay.
Listen, and decipher the brogue of an extinct
language, dead and gone like ancestors.
Difficult to read, the words delicately brush
the ear, making it difficult to be away from the distant
island, floating further than arm’s length from here.