Sausage, eggs and a cup of tea.
The familiar peat
smell wafts across
the tarmac as
we step down from
the plane.
Gentle drops
of warm rain
fall and I am home.
Cool breezes brush
against my cheek
and grey cloud
stretches in one sheet
across the sky.
Cows watch
suspiciously as
we drive by.
Home to me,
strangers to them.
Unfamiliar faces
gazing back at them
as they graze
the emerald grass.
Flat fields stretch vast
toward soft peaks
chequered like
patchwork quilts.
Starlings and crows
fill the grey sky, and
swarming in great hoards,
their noisy chatter
ripples on the breeze.
We twist and turn,
rise and fall on old
bumpy roads.
Across the River Shannon,
and into Bally Bunion.
Clinton’s stoic face,
only in this static state,
familiar in its grey,
unmoving in its place.
Though, the golf ball
is still an inside joke.
Dramatic, moody sky
breaks on distant hills
and sunlight falls
in one sharp spot
as sheets of rain
engulf surrounding fields.
After all, it is the Emerald Isle,
in case you had forgot.
We quickly scramble
into the house and
watch the drops
fall in haste
upon glass panes.
Sausage and eggs
frying on the stove
and cups of tea brew
just like they always did.