Something simple appealed to me
About this Irish cottage on western sea.
Sold my dream kitchen with granite counters
For a low fire that I bank for the night,
Enflame in early morning to fix black tea.
At night, swells of water snore away,
Mist mixing almost every day with
Those occasional hours when I see clear Sun.
My neighbor’s sheep keep the grass short.
There are no trees; no leaves to rake.
Now I’m retired and my wife is gone,
I keep my peace alone, though gulls
Clatter along the beach, an occasional deer
Comes close to the house and a fox
Sometimes drops from hills at night.
Rocks in the stream are all a-shambles,
Tumbling down, turning around—
Metaphor for me when I walk to town.
Three miles to the little village,
Visit a few shops for my meager needs.
Finally, I take time to study stars.
Despite skepticism, clear nights do come—
Move me to write a nine line poem.
Here, alone at last, I observe silence of crickets,
Profess an excellence at nothing.
There is wide immanence that comes with age,
Solitude as my singular treasure.
A stack of books are confident friends.
At the last of life, hours move slow.
I’m more content as night draws close.