has a brook that chuckles
over the stones,
confident of its power.
When it swelled into
a torrent that uprooted trees
and flooded the ground floor
of these Green Cottages.
A curious term to me
these rooms that seem
more liike suites
in a shared building.
Art or magic.
Like the kitchen
and dining hall
called the Barn.
We are charmed.
We willingly follow Jenny
down the garden path
without any deception
to meet the trees and goats,
the two cats, black Hamilton
and striped tabby Walmsley
have already introduced themselves.
Now Jenny tells us
about the hawthorne tree
the magical fairy tree
with leaves shaped like wee hands.
And I smile at Keenan
with whom I share a home
because we live
on Hawthorne Avenue.
This green place has begun
to lure me into its
wild erotic embrace,
it embodies the word, bower.
The seductive power
for a forest and tree lover
like me. I didn’t know that
Ireland had such forests.
In my sense of the place
it was more pasture and hedge,
stone walls and farm cottages.
Well, it’s lovely to meet you, dear.
May I call you Erin?
I want kiss your sweet branches
and the fork of your trunk,
breathe the spicy scent of your leaves.
You have sylvan sister back home,
who I call Molly Madrone.
Because her limbs are supple
and smooth as sun warmed skin
And they are green silk
when the paper thin orange
peels off. Now I have learned,
that your robes once cloaked
far more of the island,
until the Empire cut you,
stripped you, and ploughed you
to make their plantations.
A familiar story everywhere
isn’t it? I’m sorry.
When you drink
from the river, do the rocks
chuckle and wish you Sláinte?
Does the breeze whisper it softly?
When the wind and the river get jealous
and tear at your clothes?
Forgive them, forgive me,
I love you.
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