A Sunday Walk in Wicklow Rain. March 1st.2015.
I go for a Sunday drive for the poetry of Glenmore.
The usual patch of blue is beyond Bray Head,
The clouds scowl on the hills to the north.
At Nuns Cross Church the gates are padlocked.
I cross narrow Vartry Bridge in scarf, rain jacket,
And cut up by the muddy path through the laurel wood.
I feel the first rain drops patter on my Gore-Tex.
“It will be wet out on the hills”.I Console my mood.
Along the high cliff path I meet morning walkers
Hurrying back with their mutts to fan heated cars.
I shelter under a scenic tunnel. Honeysuckle
Climbs and clutches at the rock faulted scars.
An inscribed lozenge of whimsy from a poet
Who once lived here abouts, is pasted into a hollow.
Afar, the waterfall roars. All the rain crowds
Queue, tumble in from all of Wicklow’s plateau.
I stand on rocky ledges as high as the treetops,
I watch raindrops bead upon branches.
I see droplets drop through the air and fall from
The height of trees to the Vartry far under.
I divert into Tiglin’s sad green plantations.
The waterfall’s thunder fails away like an emptied
Stadium when the supporters and the teams have gone,
Or like the silence that fell when the poets went by.
I scramble over flinty tractor- ready forest beats.
In the damp quiet a wren chirps. A disturbed buzzard flees
Into the low tree tops. The rain turns to sleet
Like frail snow fading into a forest of Christmas trees.
The poet’s seat invites me to rest, take in the view.
A fir has grown up to block his redundant picturesque scene.
I cannot see his gift of farmhouses, hedges, the landlord’s avenue,
The flooded fields, Wicklow’s town by the Irish Sea.
We follow on ways where poets once contoured lines.
The docile act of shadowing proves no true navigation.
Now in winter rain, not in spring sunshine I must find
New ways, imbue the now in land, river, and wood.