THOUGHTS UPON HOWTH HEADLAND

Thoughts upon Howth Headland

High upon the Howth headland, the vista spreads so wide and grand…

That sun is dancing on the sea, like shining diamonds you can see…

A fishing boat churns slowly by, above its wake the seabirds fly…

The winding track with purple flowers. Where one can sit and gaze for hours…

Soft green grass a sky of blue, white lighthouse standing tall and true…

A sailing boat with wind filled sail, as people stroll along the trail…

Down below the rocky shore, where the waves roll in for evermore…

The ferry comes a ferry goes, the tide as always highs and lows…

There on the cliff an old stone home, where Yeats would pen his soulful poems…

Then in the town at the Bloody Stream, the train pulls in a busy scene…

We head back home it’s a sunny day, my thoughts of Howth will always stay…

So after we stroll that wild rolling wind blown headland, the now was a bright and sunny day as we meandered along the narrow road, down the hill and past a plaque with a rave about Yeats chiseled into stone, then as we step toward the little seaside fishing village town called Howth, the sky was blue and the summer sun was hot, so then we find ourselves seated at a table on the curbside of that little pub, watching people as we partake in a cool pint of that heady, creamy, liquid Vegemite they call Guinness…I take a sip, roll up and have a hit, as my mind is on a fizz…

Lots of people as we wander through the markets toward the shoreline where them tough looking, sea battered fishing boats are moored to the dock, we stand and gaze across the water… ‘There it is’ says Bard as he points towards a big black slippery head, with long whiskers and two beady eyes staring, ‘it’s old man Mr. Seal’, he has a snort, sucks in some air and dives to the murky depths below… and it was time to go…

Sat night I’m weary early and hit the sack to read a great Hemingway short story about the old man and the sea…

When I wake, the birds are chirping and a cool breeze is blowing through the open window…

And then as the morning unraveled it’s self, and the noontime slid bye, we take on a brunch, with a back yard barber q lunch and slot into a lazy hazy summertime Sunday afternoon picnic scene…

That Lazy Sunday afternoon…

Lazy summertime, Sunday afternoon…

Maria lying flat out, like a lizard in the sun…

Bard sitting there with shades, finger picking with strum…

The gooseberry bush is loaded, plum tree there with fruit…

As I in shaded corner, with harmonica to toot…

A dreamy loon as flowers bloom…

A distant bird to chirp its tune…

A glass of wine it goes down slow…

The apples on the tree will grow…

A hazy now is drifting, the wispy clouds are shifting…

As I hear the Dublin traffic thronging to and fro…

So we are in the zone, we will never be alone…

And though I travel far, it always feels like home…

The broken light is streaming, reaching through the trees…

Life is good for me, and of cause, the birds and bees…

We stayed with that beautiful scene, till them twilight colors reach across the sky, laying on the blanket, laughing an talking, drinking wine, the now was fine…

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