The Singing Bones

"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.

Watch a video of the reading here:

https://youtu.be/qWheFqwGQFo

From "The Journey: A Nomad Reflects."

For Sale at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/0692500944/ref=rdr_ext_tmb