He walked alone with the future
packed in his rail thin body
down the long road to Cork,
in his bloodstream my life,
my daughters and grandson,
my sister, her children and grandchildren
taking us to a place he had never seen,
sure it was better than where he’d been.
He wasn’t much of a dreamer
though some spark
must have kept him walking,
to bring the story he was given
to the place it could be written,
holding on so fiercely
to the touch of providence
that was his.

What grows to the light
will not be deterred
by the buried emotion
of history’s trauma,
the path to the sun
having roots deep set
in the dark soil of heredity,
the minerals of forgotten pain
drawn up to the open sky
by an unwavering faith
in the unwritten future.

Encaustic painting
by Eilish Hynes

The sky breaks open above the valley,
birds fly out from their hunker,
buds swell on the flowering trees
and the wet drape of winter
pulls back on the upwell of life
rising from the ground
to meet the coming light.

Somewhere in the deep forest
with only a slender trail
beyond the reach of roads,
old growth trees stand in silence
as the mountain creek
bears the weight of winter
down the steep walled canyon.
Alone in that quiet
the desire of life
speaks without fault,
gravel bars and thorny brush
keeping her company
as the memory
of who we were
and still are meant to be
rests beneath the silent trees
beside the flowing river.