Near-noon sunlit County Sligo by Lough Gill, late
August or early September. I unfolded
out of the tour van, stood looking at the glistening
lake surface, stared at Innisfree, close to the shore
but not close enough for me to hear a bee-loud glade,
if there were any, on this seemingly so small an island.
From the Yeats poem, I envisioned
a large mass of sod, with graceful and proud
trees, but instead, small scrubs and nearly-bare
branches in a brief breeze. I will rise and go now, and I
felt a disappointment akin to later
seeing how small the Mona Lisa appeared
in the crowded, cordoned-off room at the Louvre, yet here,
dark birds flew, dipped down, then arced into
The near-autumn sky. I snapped a photograph and,
on cue, climbed back into the van. We drove on
to the Yeats grave under Ben Bulbin before returning to town.
As the sun slipped behind afternoon’s gathering
clouds, gulls recited along the bay, and I
slowly walked back to the pub, up the stairs
to my room, and lay on the narrow bed, wondering
what other disappointments awaited. I stirred,
rolled on my side, consented to remember
the many decades to come, before I closed my eyes,
felt a peace come dipping, lapping with low sounds,
fell into a solemn, honest, and inspiring sleep.
