Wednesday, March 18, 2015
Crazy (A poem for Connemara)
I am crazy in love with Connemara:
striped granite mountains hulking in fog or cloud,
alien boglands grown over with improbably yellow gorse
filled with flat silver water ruffling in salt wind,
curve after curve after inlet of
fine white sand, or tiny bits of coral, or round lavender rocks,
fuschia, montbretia, hawthorn
long low strands or rounded hills or cliff-edged roads
each as perfect as the next
with rainbow sheep sprinkled over all.
If I lived in one of those thick white cottages
("Bungalow for Sale" says the hand-lettered sign)
I'd spend my days looking out windows
at the sea, at the bog, at the sky,
lost in wonder.
So when I see a man walking his dog of an evening
his hair silver, or brown, or red, long clomping stride,
hands shoved deep into pockets,
I want to ask, are you married?
Can I kiss you?
Marrying into one of those cottages
seeming in this moment
like the most wonderful thing,
the fulfillment of every desire.
And if he is married, well,
maybe I'd kiss him anyway
because Connemara is so beautiful
is a perfect day.
–– Mary Pat Lynch