Melody on the Cliff


If only I could hear again

the fair lady’s melody.

Her voice drifted over

the cliffs of Moher.

She played the harp

at the edge

of civilization.

Her fingers danced

like the wind.

 

If only I could hear again

the fair lady’s melody.

Under those supple eyelids

what did she see?

Was it dark blue waters

stretched beyond comprehension?

Past which, did she wonder

if distant cousins

lived, who, exiled

from the island

lost all knowledge

of the golden harp?

Her harp was glorious

in its poverty, all polished wood,

with strings which carried more colors

than a rainbow.

 

If only I could hear again

the fair lady’s melody.

Was it of light green fields

filled with barley first sprouted

centuries before bursting

from Celtic bodies

whose pockets held seeds

meant for munching on the march?

 

If only I could hear again

the fair lady’s melody.

Her voice drifted over

the hills of County Clare

where flutes were fashioned

to sound like the whistles

of local birds perched upon short brush.

Words above the burren,

songs carried for centuries.

 

She wore plain brown wool

as plain as her demeanor.

Truly emerald-esque,

modest yet cherished.

If only I could hear again

the fair lady’s melody.

cliffs_of_moher
I took this photo in May 2013 at the Cliffs of Moher.

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