tangled reach toward the sun…limbs spreading toward day, while it still remains…and i walk along a narrowing path down to water’s edge…there is yet a beauty in the grey-white. something i cannot convince myself- when studying the weathered faces of those i knew years ago, now with white-thatching covering their aging crowns…
…that will not be me, i counsel within, knowing my thick wavy locks speak of years before my time so that i age like finer wine and those who ponder my wrinkles mistake them for the pain i have endured, rather than more years than they…
as do these white-grey figures with their thin bodies- dramatic movement in the sun-stage…they would dance if possible, these trees…dance to stretch further afield, farther from the lip-edge of the blue water bay. but it is only i, the one with baring back as i cut through the white-tufted grass stalks, forging further afield…
beyond that field, and back again, a testimony to endurance that produces youth…or the ruddy look of it.
The Lost Kerryman 