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At one point in my life, I lived for a number of years under W.B Yeats’s ‘ bare Ben Bulben’s head’  by Glencar lake, where I spent days exploring ‘where the wandering water gushes from the hills above glen car, in pools among the rushes that scarce could bath a star’  http://www.online-literature.com/yeats/816/

Then through a series of occurrences (and what is life but such a journey) I moved away but never lost my dream of owning once again a small white cottage under a mountain or by a river or the sea, or down a small boirin…..Cycling around the countryside on my yellow bicycle, I am always on the look out for old cottages and wishing and dreaming………..


I dreamt last night of a small white house

with a willow tree down by a stream.

where I would kneel among moss covered rocks

and scoop my hands and drink my fill,


I dreamt there was a small square field

behind the house beyond the tree

A milking goat and two speckled hens

and a hawthorn hedge to keep them in.


I dreamt there were three apple trees

In front of the house by the garden gate

a vegetable patch and some raspberry canes

and hives full of honey bee’s.


I dreamt my love had a boat at sea

and I would wait with the fire well lit

and he’d row home on the cold dark nights

and we would feast on fish.


I have not finished this poem, nor do I intend to. I think the next verse would oblige me to wake from it and I would like to keep my dream alive.

summer 2013 207