Through the Window
In my mind we were in the mountains
walking barefoot through the stream. Black boots
tied and hanging from our shoulders.
The air as cool as silk in shadows
and the silvered water shone.
We found a boulder; big as an elephant
kneeling, bending. A great grey bulk,
carried there twenty thousand years ago.
and as we lay on our backs the boulder
became our pivot for the sky.
Now as I stand longing for that time
the sound of traffic drifts through the open
window; afternoon rush hour still to come.
Belfast shimmers and the hills are blue
with distance. A shadow creeps
from the brick wall and a stray breeze, at times,
becomes gently pink with cherry blossom.
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