Longing Place                                                                                                    

Beyond Ballagh's rise
Ireland calls at the door, 
hilltops, shrines and pastures 
green with memories.

Even the silence,
still and heavy laden,
lies shrouded with echoes 
of the barely dead.

In the night they rise,
mingling with newer dreams, 
tugging at the edges
of the mind's snagged sleeve.

I must swim upward,
break free of the arm's cling
and grip of history, 
be myself. Stranded.

They would live again
through me. 
Re-invent selves 
within my consciousness. 
Seek my longing place.