Rougey Cliff Walk

I have never before seen snow in Ireland, but then again, I’ve never been Here in January when it can rain, hail, sleet, and snow all in one day — I Think of Joyce writing about the snow falling all over Ireland at the end of

His story, “The Dead, — as I walk this Atlantic gateway I think of my Ancestors who left, long ago now, this barren windswept west coast to head East in hope of food and shelter and warmth — I think of the small things —

How a warm teacup feels in my hands, how good it feels to traverse other Lands — I think of how I am seeing the bumps in Benbulben where Yeats is Buried for the first time, places I have only read about, road signs like Sligo

Appear in the course of an ordinary morning — I think about my mom and How she wanted to be reincarnated as a cloud — she would like these clouds That hover above the mountains, clouds that turn to snow, surf unceasing.

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