By: Fergus Carty
Not at a lake of dreamy fantasy, feet sunk in rough sand of reality.
Weathered steps of time replaced wood, rise up loosely above this winter flood.
White Lake beyond the hills or vision, holds itself across a phase division.
I am alone in part and by wind cut, stood in the chill emptiness of “The Cut”
One foot, two feet, a pace, each unsteady, numbly guide me onward so unready.
Girded about with Oisin’s saddle strap, too late, too late here now to remember.
Trapped in a nightmare of my making, the earth in my shoes is no remedy.
Cold dark Derravaragh far off yonder, now listening for Fionnuala’s whisper,
Ancient pilgrim swans in circling flight, transformed to crystal rose-bowl light.
Watching just moth-like the fading flicker, without hope entranced and bitter.
Standing cold and grey gathering my might, the pier runs on out as if to take flight.
I cannot cast this stone in the water, shattered dreams the surface to litter.
Fergus Carty
"Love is the child of illusion and the parent of disillusion".
~Miguel de Unamuno
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