Circles

Over the past number of days I struggled to finish a poem which I had started, in fact I struggled to finsih most of which I had started. Much like the weather here, rain falling was more of a distraction than any other time. Eventually after a couple of days of this mindset I pushed myself through until I have completed the poem that is found below.

Much of my thoughts were centred around how poets of years past like W.B.Yeats wrote for what they believed in and thus eventually changed a little to write of something a little different. For example Yeats first wrote on Irish celtic traditions and life style being lost. Then there was Seán “Clárach” Mac Domhnaill (1691–1754) an Irish language poet who wrote in the language that in itself promoted his faith and love for the irish language, also his writings for most part were centered about Penal Laws which had made lifemore than difficult for Roman Catholics of that time. One of his more famous works was a lament for Bonnie Prince Charles, who was defeated at the battle of Culloden in 1746, which was in many words a great hope for Catholics who had hoped for a future better than what they faced.

My focus on the last named poet was heightened by the fact that his home for much of his life and where he is burried is where I grew up in and still have great love for this area. It is an extra drive to write poetry that in many ways has been driven on by a poet that is burried only a very short distance from where I grew up. This is an example of how my mind has distracted me from writing these past few days.

Todays poem is I would hope pretty easy to discover the how and why. But more so It is completely a complete creation of my active imagination. Please enjoy.

Circles 



Like circles in the sand who knows, 
If lines began or ended too soon,
Or washed by tides to a new tune. 
Untouched as footsteps passing by grows.


Wandering silent between sand and rocks,
Thoughts of you come crashing like the tide,
Who could run or Who would hide, I tried.
Season’s roll with a melancholy kind in stocks.


Sitting watching as crows peck on solid soil,
I ponder on what was lost and the cost,
Now survived by memories which are tossed,
in a lost mind in grief, a spring without oil.


Looking eager does not count to rebuild,
A heart that acts like milk spilled or killed.







©  Pat Fitzgerald  2022

Thank you for getting this far into this post. I realise that this one may have been a little harder to follow and shows how my mind wanders a little. BUT My hope is that you still found something to chew on as it were.

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