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 Enga mellom fjella: where from across the meadow, poems sing from mountains and molehills. |
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Enga mellom Fjella  Sentinel Marked as if you own me I bow before the Bitterroots and just like you my rocky soil, my withered grass lays prey to the empty sky. © Kåre Enga 2007 "Sentinel"   Reader's Choice of Poems: "'heart's home'" "Where grows the compost heap" "Waterlily" "I, Katrina" "Starbeams on Tulsa" Reader's Choice of blog entries from my old blog "L'aura del Campo" :"Death of Jeannie New Moon" "Winter: 18 Mas'il (December 29)" "When is it proper to tell someone you love them?" "Footprints in the snow, in memory of Nyia Page" "Il pleure (poem). We R puddle-luscious, aujourd'hui." FACES     PLACES            Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop The Fish |
| For "Invalid Item" Julia was visiting Dingle for the first time since she left Tra Li in 1853 The sea breeze freshened her face as she looked around at the sailboats. She was mighty thirsty. MacCartaigh Bar promised a glass of Guinness that she should not drink. Thankfully, it was closed. And the pub that offered fish and chip with mushy peas was closed too. She sighed as clouds closed in to pea soup and drizzle. Ah, it did, it did. 'Twas a great day to be Irish. Lucky? define that. It's true that she had been dead well over 100 years but what did that have to do with the price of cál ceannann (colcannon)? At least they were growing potatoes again. And the roses bloomed in May in Tra Li. As they always did. County Kerry was home. She wasn't McCarthy Mor, but she was a McCarthy none-the-less. She sat down to watch the sailboats and dreamt of taking back Caseal Rock for her clan. Nasty O'Briens. History lingered in every forgotten graveyard, whispered from headstone to headstone, bantered between bones. Better to not listen too closely. They gossiped like old widowers. She cackled about that. Off to America they told her. Herself had married a Hooker. Now her great-grand-children were all dead. Except one. She waited impatiently. Julia wanted to show her her Eire land, verdent, misty with muck. When would her great-grand-daughter die. Suredly, it would be on a great day to be Irish! |
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