Workers' Liberty

ON ARANMOR
The man, grey-bearded, bulky, cold,
Who stands on a rock against our old
Foot-lapping grey Atlantic Sea,

At the very rim of Europe —me?
On Inismor, now mere envoi;
Who'd dreamed that I would sanctify
My coming home sojourning here
Amidst revenant Gaels, in the lair
Of Ireland's past: a place unseen
But dreamed of: I was seventeen.
And now, in the foggy cold October
Of my year, with the umpteenth lover
And my fifteen year-old tall son,
I'm home for a day, the day near done:
Old man, grey, bald, embattled — me?
Dissolving mist, by the cold, salt sea.
1993