Yeats’ Home

© D. Ely, all rights reserved.

When the wind wraps ’round this place
I must admit: you’re in my soul
with uilleann pipes on trees and
the promise of wild, unfettered greens
and the voices, caroling, calling me home
to some old place, half crumbled,
that only I could love. Or could you
see the beauty, the salvageable
amongst the rubble of my mind, my corpse,
the girl I used to be?

I dreamed of Ireland and he who’d take me there
to sing and dance bare-footed on dew-tipped grass
and give me music, and babies,
and blarney enough to make me believe in security.

He’s gone the way of performances when the curtain
the moment it’s done it’s gone forever,
like the method of all things–
music and pipes and green, and babies,
poetry, us, love, old stone. We are all, someday,
just memories.