"A writer is not interested in explaining reality. He’s only interested in capturing it.” ~ Brendan Kennelly.
Inside my father's bones lie a million secrets.
Secrets passed down the long chain from the
beginning of time and the vastness of space.
In the glorious mix of diversity, endlessly
coursing through the shrouded mists of the
Holy Island, he breathes still. The memories
of his people, absorbed by the stones and the
very earth herself, exhale all that ever was and
inhales all that will ever be.
Their essence still permeates, insisting that it
be never forgotten.
From Cessair, through Fomorian,
Nemedian, Fir Bolg, Tuatha, Milesian,
Celt, Viking, Saxon and Norman, I inhaled that
cocktail of life with eager lungs and magnificent
surprise. I am inside my father's bones and my
father is inside mine.
He is the beggar-man, the holy man, the master
and the freeman. He still walks the fields, sure of foot.
He still wades the stream, fearless. He still lures the
trout, with a quiet assuredness.
He still charms the goldfinch from her tree-top
perch, ever gently. Yes, I am inside my father’s
bones, and he is inside mine.
His bones sing loud enough for me to hear
even in the darkest, deepest silence of the
night. On quiet evenings, I can still hear his
melodic whistling, floating on the air,
ever calling me.
From "The Journey: A Nomad Reflects."
For Sale at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/0692500944/ref=rdr_ext_tmb