A Poem From Ireland

I wrote this poem in Ireland. There were so many beautiful lakes and hills that I felt I needed to write at least one poem.

Between The Oaks

In the summer
the island was our home.
Stark against the wind-tossed
waters of the lake,
great oaks, rose into a thick copse.
The water was never warm
but the August Sun
was just enough, for us to swim.

In those kinder months
we’d make our way to the oaks
nearly every day,
sun against our skin,
and warmth in our chests
as we raced each other, and the failing
of our youth.
And on that island, sanctuaried
by the gnarled oak trunks,
and the green that sprouted
through their roots,
we would play and love and smile.
Within our wooden castle
we escaped, coming in times of need
and boredom alike,
always with each other.

Once time grasped us,
the we that fled into the oaks became I,
and the grasp grew even stronger.
I delayed until inevitable,
and then, in winter, I returned.
Rowing through the frigid water,
I did not face the island.
I watched the lakeshore,
where the waters lapped
in rythym with my breath.
As I breathed and saw the air of my lungs
mist upon the cold,
I remembered our warm, labored chests,
as we swam through the lake,
and lie at dusk, our bodies spent.
But now I arrive on the island
unexhausted and forlorn.
There, before the thick bark of the oaks,
I stopped.
I could not enter.
Even though the world between the oaks
was a part of me and I a part of it,
no, it was ours, and therefore never mine.
Alone, I could not breach the threshold
of the oaks, and so I left,
the island and memories of summer.