American Shores
copyright 1997 Mary Bertke
It started with chocolate, and then with the hills,
my mind speeding back to the pub, giving chills.
The good times and laughter re-conquered my brain,
I can talk to my friends, but it isn’t the same.
Refrain:
For a fleeting wisp of the Donegal air,
or the scent of the peat-bogs, or the dancing in Clare,
and I’m stolen away to a far-distant clime,
wishing myself back in place and in time,
and I wonder if others who lived there before
find themselves lost on American shores.
I’m happy, I’m healthy, I’ve made a new home,
but there’s something still urging my passion to roam,
I suppose you could say that I mislaid my mind,
and I have to return soon, and search till I find.
I’ll be sitting and typing or working by rote
when the memories rise up and catch in my throat.
And I cannot explain to the people around
the reason the laughter and tears come unbound.
I remember the snow, whipping cream with a fork,
the bold drunken scot and Pat Murphy from Cork,
the friends and the authors with horses and halls,
and the hostel with bikes and red lights on the walls.
There was cutting the barmbrack, and finding the ring,
the fortuitous strangers who forced me to sing,
the tree where I sat as it told me its tale,
the old standing stones, and the castle for sale!
I know, to go back, I have nothing to gain,
my blood’s pounding now in some Irish vein,
But I wonder and wait, and remember and sing
of the island from which all these memories spring.
I thought I met strangers but found friends from home,
connections to two worlds wherever I’d roam,
the rides and the hikes and the challenges shared,
I remember, and wish I were with them back there.