1916

One hundred years gone now, a number of years, imaginings of the patriots of Ireland, who had more bravery and guts than you or I have today, seeping into the memory of particular individuals, attempting to bring them to the personal heart, in the year of 2016. And the stories of the heroes are legend, as they were and are. Connolly and Pearse, and chalk and cheese, and the 1913 lockout, the precursor, the injustice, the prompt, the instigation. And love at the root of things, the thorn of the rose, and killing of the Irish rose, when nobody was showing interest in the real way. I walk past the GPO about a thousand times a day, on Arbour Hill I have prayed, I have wondered what has happened to the dead, outside even, of the Fenian dead. And there are names, a litany by this time, names to produce, to add to the memory, my family and my respect, and that stilled feeling in the moment of quiet contemplation, attempting to understand, in the year of one hundred years later.

Trees

Frightened within the forest, when not even the sky can breathe, on the edge and in the middle, vision impaired, and it isn't right somehow to seek help outside of an independent mind, and you gaze upon the trees and you study them, perhaps you can meditate on them, and feel the life in them, and know that they really are, and are real. And away from the city, there is soul increase, spirit has the chance to grow, and memories haunt forever until you throw them into the wilds of uncertainty, which memories are already in the midst of, anyway. the day escapes to claim its freedom, it has grown apart from yesterday and has broken the mirror. Light enters the sky, of a still young day, and it comes from the roof of the forest, where the sky had been clad in uncertainty, and could not be discerned. And from the light there is the warmth of this new day, and it looks to you, questioning whether you are prepared to accept it or not.