The Scotch Pines kept sentry by the hilltop
where the St. John’s Eve fire blazed.
We feasted on Mi – Wadi and bull’s eyes,
and listened while my Grandmother played
her melodeon on our milking stool.
Nearby the perfectly tuned water music
gurgled through the ancient Clochán
where we staccatoed off the crooked step.
hollowed out in the valleys
between watchful hills.
Salmon played in deep pools
before being netted on to the
nearby bank and spirited away
by ditch and shadows. As grey twilight
morphed to moonlight.
Snatched melodies of Maggie and
Miss Mc Clouds drifted on the wind
and we watched the fire – flames
alive with mystery burn on the
cornerstone of a pre – famine home.