Distant at first, the slap tap-tapping

of shoes clicking hardwood clacking

the floor of a dance hall absent

of inhibitions.

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.