County Roscommon, Ireland
I picked you up on the outskirts
of the forest beyond the castle ruin.
Nothing yet explains those green
emanations, delicate, barely able
to tickle a baby’s palm, so manifold
from the red core that you rolled
like an odd ball off the dash’s vinyl.
For kilometres, you rode alongside,
hooked to the fabric of the seat, stoic
at my petty broodings, devoted
to the trance of scattering seed.
In polar examples you counselled me:
be still, by all means move along.
Tell no one your name.
Copyright A.E. Stringer 2009
