from Gathering Stones
The gloaming deepens, grows dark
and cold. Staring into the sky,
the stargazer’s mind wanders
far from British Belfast back
to Celtic crosses and beyond —
nights entrenched in bonfire light
pastures aglow and faces mesmerized
with delight — days, weeks, months
of labor left behind.
thumps in his blood, brings his thoughts
back to the fields filled with phantoms
in rhythm with his soul.