Poem

Clifden

Right now is night
and a deep black night along Clifden,
beneath a full moon: a fortune in silver
clouds and linings within blackened water.

Small village doesn’t speak nor do I,
the air speaks:
a rustle of sycamore leaves,
clanging bells from sailboats
in the harbor, a hard gust
that warns of the coming silence.

Any word from me and the small village
would float away
as the horizon does as you fall away
from it on a hillside

onto your back and meet the moon
and a zillion stars with your eyes,
and thoughts of them meaning less than
those stars right now
if you were here with me.