The Green of the Isle


The wind comes from the west,

boldly humming his tale of weathered old cottages

staring onto the glassy surface of the cold Atlantic sea

and mushy white and black sheep grazing on

wide luscious pastures of my beloved green Isle.

The leafy little spot hidden behind an overpowering

shield of might having tried to take your being,

essence,

more than once.

But you withstand

softly strong,

still and

again and again

refusing to

bend down

under

for some

alien command.

With your sense of beautiful awkwardness

and pride of being imperfectly

perfect.

In all you do and are.

Breathing the wideness of the salty air

which feeds your inside existence

which can not be taken,

taken over

taken away.

There is a distinctive feel in that breeze

almost forceful energy,

which receives you

when you arrive

on its shores.

Something higher

something more regnant than

any strength known.

It is a might

sent by the celtic gods,

the spirits

to embrace you

to force you

to toss you

to mould you

softly

sometimes gentle

often vigorously

to who you

should be

supposed to be

meant to be.

The path of the celtic soul.

Fate.

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