I Did Not Know You, Moniack Mhor
but you have always been there
in one guise or another.
I trace the range of Strathfarrar with my finger,
I draw the line of it in the air.There is no sea, no sea here,
no Juno, Jupiter or Saturn
(the ships of my childhood).At Moniack Mhor I lie with the bees,
their still bodies floating above me.
A horse rider clips in the lower valley, curlews cry in my ear.Hills fall behind hills,
behind hills. Moniack Mhor
is forever opening—
a gift of dry grass, crab clouds,
the green nest of furze slowly breaking apart.Nightly the yellow almond buds creep closer,
until I can taste them in the dark air.
Feature Date
- June 2, 2018
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Copyright © 2018 by Marion McCready
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission

Issue 124
Dublin
Ireland
Editor
Eavan Boland
Assistant Editor
Paul Lenehan
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