Images from my memory: Ireland in exile
It was in the spring of my life when a gentle rain danced across my face,
Glistening drops of sparkling moisture caresses the tautness of my cheekbones,
Dew bathed my eyelashes and brows, until a fire-lit slice of sun jumped ballet-like across the clearing,
Each leaf opened its veined hand exposing a shimmering crystal-a diamond laser droplet, suddenly a vapor.
Life uncaringly drove the steed of day into the threadlike clouds of the disappearing mists.
Ireland and its children hauntingly silent, tip-toed like phantoms across the peat-bogs into history
- James Moore