(Planxty: Dublin 2005) 

The high note, held, stretching

the space above the drone;

like wind torn spray

as the great wave, darkening, builds;

wailing like the curve of the bay, 

lean as famine, leaning into 

the blurred percussion 

of Atlantic rollers, coming home  

across unfathomable depth,

to crash onto the present

this cargo of raw, wounded memory. 

Like a window blasted open,

the music admits the smell of rain

drumming on the shuttered house. 

Where the locals never learn to spell 

the migrant’s name, the dancers stamp and call,

while by the fire, whiskey and stories

blur in customary gestures.

Laughter and exuberance, suspended

without resolution, above 

a strained and ruined loneliness.

Written after listening to Liam O'Flynn playing solo at Planxty's concert in Dublin in 2005.

This poem originally published in Rough Spun to close Weave.

Details can be found at WWW.liamguilar.com