A Shannon Memory

Revisiting Lough Ree    

Morning comes colourless;

trees stoop to the lake like pilgrims

witnessing images that are riddles in the water.

 

A sudden shriek. “Over here, no here, over here."

I see nothing; the lake keeps its children chilled

in ice buckets among the reeds. 

Once I trailed a ripple from a boat

that bevelled this water. I remember the oars'

loud soft thud, slap till I die.  

It was June. Insects teemed on the  surface.

The sun, that tanned our backs, lulled the countryside

into sleep before the fields were even cranked.

 

My father was there. 

Now December. The lake drags its cutlery

through this cress-green landscape

with an indifference that leaves memories shivering.