Paddy Bushe
The Mountain
after Pádraig Ó Mileadha
The mountain I remember
Keeps coming and going
From plane into plane
Of its own shimering.
I wish to God I could live again
In that sheltery valley,
With long strings of cousins,
All of them decent people;
Where sunlight might settle warmly
Out of a guileless sky,
And my spread hands catch the dew
That drops down from the stars.
I wish too that language
Had never changed, that words
Still knew their neighbours
And would never again dry up.
I wish that the mountain
Just over there
Would be always the same
As maybe it was.
Page(s) 18
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