chatting with Saoirse

you lying in the sun
reading the inch-thick books
we found yellowing
in a Dungloe window;
illustrated Life of Brian scripts,
The Last Temptation of Christ,

you liked them both –
and you, an atheist.

naked splashing
in a spring-water rock pool
warmed in the sun
flushed by the tide

timeless campfire twilights
slipping into darkness
as the Earth tilted slowly
slowly into night

while you sipped rum
I drank too much ‘Dew’

you, lying on talc-soft sand
in parasol shade
with a wisp of gauze
draped for decency’s sake
across your thighs
captivated me

you laid ‘The Temptation’ aside
as I walked toward you
and I swear to God,
that in your face
I saw the face of God

and your welcome smile
was His smile
and your wide-open arms
were His arms
and your acceptance of me
into your very self
was His acceptance

it's good to be near you again
I hopped the ferry from Burtonport
cycled past the lough
to the old lighthouse
where you spent long hours
painting watercolours
and wanted to settle
but the cancer feasting on you
consumed you

that sorrowful day
I buried your ashes
in that amphora
you bought in Syria

I planted an asphodel
and on a flat chalk stone
inscribed a memorial,

“here lies my brief miracle”

weathered by winters
the inscription has faded
no wording remains

a toast to your memory
with Captain Morgan

it tastes of your hugs
it embraces my soul

you are near
you are
so very near

before riding home
I’ll head to the shore
to find another
white stone marker,
and on it I’ll write,

“speak softly for Saoirse dreams here”