Heading South from Larne to Kerry,
I like to think I’m in the driving seat,
but you’re the world’s worst navigator,
reading the map, yes, though not the route,
relishing the place names, every Gaelic road sign
guessing their meanings, leading us astray
by Baile Atha Fhirdhia – Town of the Ford
of the Man of God, on past An Uaimh –
The Cave, through An Chulchoill –
The Back Woods, while Cnoc an Tochair –
Hill of the Dowry, beckons from the East;
the two of us, today, fording another stretch of time,
though we’re not of that god, the one of the black book –
we belong to one whose work is all around us here
in Cluain Meala – Field of the Honey, on this mellow
midsummer’s eve, three decades since we tied the knot,
taking ages, forever, it seems, to reach An Coirean –
The Pool, because the words beguile you
from the straight and narrow, as they’ve always done,
my dear, mo charaid, mo ghraidh, leading us to places
I might never have seen, places that are mapped now,
forever, on my tongue and in my heart.
