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Recently I got back in contact with someone who reminded me of some stuff I used to write (poems, short stories and the like) and I’ve been looking back at some of it with a mixture of both warm and sad feelings.

So… anyway… six years and four days ago (when I was twenty-five), I wrote this poem called “The Clare Way”. It was influenced by a time when me and this young American lady who I was utterly in love with and had a strong spiritual connection with, stumbled upon a quiet secluded little corner of County Clare with a mansion next to a lake which was found via a mossy tunnel of trees, well off the beaten track, and it was written in – oh  about 10 minutes. Make of it what you will:-

The Clare Way The leafy glades some gods had made And put aside as beauty, The mossy treet of make-believe All overgrown and rooty. The ruined house in freedom dowsed And full of lifes loud glory, Where every stick or crumbled brick Could tell an endless story. The slanted flights of golden light Strike down on a moss-made carpet The hiding creatures of the night Their ne’er-discovered target The wind dies down, cold circles round, The woods are dead alive. - An idyllic spot – amidst the rot Where life and love now thrive. And in the verdant vibrant green Two tangled souls now tread, This dusk-walk won, trapped from the sun To dreams and hopes ahead.