Knee to knee
upon the wood chairs
with worn woolen warmth
tea in hand
you read to me
from a line of sox…
I want to embrace you
you in your
rose mohair sweater
like Maori the cat
soft and warm
your delicious words
your voice like bird song
singing another tale
I could listen
forever to your story
Fiddle music drifts
into my mind
tunes half remembered
like the trails we have wandered
over
the uneven ground…
the plains of boyle…
I tease the fire you started
gathering twigs in boxes
with chilly fingers
smoke curling over the bricks
into the room
like the memories we try to unravel
together
~~
About a month ago I journeyed up to Donegal, the wildest, most sparsely populated and northern county in Ireland to see my friend Allaye O’Connor, a gifted writer, fiddler and baker. I spent eight lovely days watching her kneading irish bread, laughing and playing fiddle tunes together, hiking in the moors, photographing sheep, and sitting beside the fire with a cat on my lap sharing, just two girls with kindred spirits…
alisoninfrance 