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Shannon Crossing

Out of Cootehall I crossed where the princely Shannon
sleeps and plugged my recording mind into the ambient
silence of warblers and intermittent cock-crow
piercing the distance between the bees reminiscing
and the green metallic-shine of dragonflies
floating on a black meniscus.

In the church of Our Lady of Clonfert two women enter,
one carrying her dog, and kneel at the medieval
wood carving placing their anxieties and daily frets
at her feet, hope her embrace will soothe
their individual circumstance of loss and longing.

Outside the evening garden is in green repose,
held within the width of a second, or a nano-second;
a momentary sliver of the universe spun in gigantic
stand-still gyrations storing the moments between
a Shannon crossing and a wooden Madonna
centuries stilled behind glass.