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.