On a rock, raw rock
knuckling from the ripple
of Lough Ramor,
sprouted from a seed
that was wave-borne
or carried on the claws
of a bird, or spilled
from pockets of the wind,
a sapling —
wind- or wave-worn
but in leaf,
a sprig grappling
to sustain itself
on what?,
a wild oat foraging
in the pasturage
of water,
and holding ground.
Like the split posts
of a locust fence
driven home in earth
to serve one purpose
where they found
another will —
Now the living outnumber the dead
and what the dead know
decreases
I learn the lessons of a lake
that says
its story in spray,
or a tree in leaves;
and I say
to my son, my future,
Forgive me,
forgive my frailties and my failings.
I would have my loves outlive me.