A Sense of Place

Higher than my head stray stalks
of unharvested flax seem
to mock me with the spirits
of Kavanagh
and the poets of Ulster
for my Englishness
and therefore lack of soul

I could walk forever
the briar edged road,
with budding daffodil and marsh marigold
waiting for the magic to
slide over my left shoulder
The poet’s birthplace shrieks
PRIVATE - NO ADMITTANCE
in blue & white hostility
as I try to imagine
the window from which
young Patrick pondered
his father’s backside

The Muse is nipping
at my red city
ankles as I curse the formality
of my English tongue
while the Monaghan ranges
hide themselves always
around the next bend of the road

If there were a mountain
in sight I could believe
I were in Keswick then
the poetry of my
schooling would give me
a host of flaming
daffodils instead of the flaxen
ghosts who look into my veins
and see no race memory
of their history.

(c) Liz Willows 2000