An Evening In June

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.