I do not enter lightly, holding a cherished flame so small
and my breath high in my throat.
The undiluted possibility of your hallowed pathways
not even slightly diminished by facilitating tarmac and cafe where I might doff my coat

and chat to a companion and pretend I am not bewitched.
Luckily, the two who accompany me are nature’s slaves.
They bow at her every breeze murmur and wind shriek,
touch her bark, pick her blossoms, whistle in her caves.

They enable my disabling yearning to feel your spirit.
I wonder if anything I touch has been touched before by the genius hand
that comforts and excites me.
Atop Coole House’s tomb I slink around, a diviner with a rod of longing,
imagining the places you sat, you read, you talked, you thought.

Ostentatiously, I recite your “Wild Swans”
in a driveway gilt with gold and leaves still falling
We drink hot tea, kick a ball and then they are calling

me to go. A child being led from Neverland,
I zip my jacket and turn and leave
vowing to come back often or never more.
Feeling my soul ignite and my heart cleave.



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