in Belfast
in a thatched roof house
along the cobblestones.
the chimneys are full of smoke,
the cold
fires burn,
as we leave and walk
in the west harsh wind,
hand in and hand.
her emerald eyes are wet
against the atlantic.
are arms, pale, her hair
streaming a gold flame
of red.
we walk. we say nothing.
leaving the poetry,
the conversation to hollows
of green
to the immortal bards,
the dead.
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