Poem By Colm Flanagan
Is it the wind on your limbs like warm laundered linen,
the fields of corn that crowds and wave,
or the bubble and simmer of the children’s voices-
above the hush and swish of the tree top breeze?
Is it the chatter of the birds through the damp mornings,
The jarring chequer of the washing lines purples and reds
Or the stained glass leaves filtering the blue grey light-
Casting dapple upon dapple?
Is it the wind’s whisper captured through the alien bamboo,
The mind and motionless fly
Or the papery flap of the moth-
And its promise to return?
Is it the lazy rain that pitters on the plastic and lies light on the garden’s conifers,
The grey cloak that lays down on the day
Or the time to watch a spider wrestle a fly
through the wire of his web?
Is it the girls that fizz over insects, captured in careful hands and smooth jars,
the pearl sunlight or the bible clouds,
the drunken laughter of the storm cloud chase?
It is all and more and none of these things
It is the gift we place
And give to our memories to open
When one or two or more of us meet
And remember Girardiere.