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A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,

WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC




WHERE THE LIMESTONE MEETS THE SEA

I want to live in the Irish karst
Where the limestone meets the sea.
The littlest cottage made of stone
Would be room enough for me,
For I would walk the shores by day
Till dim became the light,
And gather driftwood in my arms
To start the fire at night.

I love the beauty of a karst
That others find so barren:
I love the pitted, rounded rocks
Etched with rillenkarren,
The fractures widened into grikes
That open to the ocean,
The sinkholes through which I can see
The churning waves in motion.

No mortal walks the karst at night;
The cliffs are much too scary.
The rocks become in dim twilight
The kingdom of the faeries
Who dwell beside freshwater springs
Found deep within the caves
And pipe and sing and dance all night
On platforms cut by waves.

If I could live in the Irish karst
On the coast of County Clare,
Id leave the snows of my native land
And spend my winters there,
In a magic land untouched by time,
The stronghold of the Sidhe,
Amid the ancient ruins,
Where the limestone meets the sea.

Doolin, Ireland, 2001



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