So we stopped and parked in the spring-cleaning light Of Connemara on a Sunday morning As a captivating brightness held and opened And the utter mountain mirrored in the lake Entered us like a wedge knocked sweetly home Into core timber. Not too far away But far enough for their rumpus not to carry, A pair of waterbirds splashed up and down And on and on. Next thing their strong white flex That could have been excitement or the death-throes Turned into lift-off, big sure sweeps and dips Above the water — no rafter skimming souls Translating in and out of the house of life But air-heavers, far heavier than the air.
Yet something in us had unhoused itself At the sight of them, so that when she bent To turn the key she only half-turned it And spoke, as it were, directly to the windscreen, In profile and in thought, the wheel at arm’s length, Averring that this time, yes, it had indeed Been useful to stop; then inclined her driver’s brow Which shook a little as the ignition fired.
