The Ceili

 

McMahan’s barn. Nail-holes,
light streaming from a winter sky,
starlight, blue and white
until the sun sets after ten.

Dirt floor swept smooth.
Dust wraiths swirl
in the spotlights streaming down.

The fiddle sets twilight
on a rosy edge.
Sun dips behind the beech hedge.
Iron oxide afire in the red glow.

Darkness draws them out.
Bees buzzing to sweetness
music heady and intoxicating.
The bohran sets hearts to beating
and feet to tapping.

Sound the heartbeat of a reel
rising from the dirt.
The hand of an angel lands on my shoulder
and we move on strands of magic.

– Dave Kavanagh.

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