I’m sorry that I lost my way
to end up here, beneath this tree,
its withered branches reaching low
to touch the ground, and shelter me.
Bracken wavers in the breeze,
that blew across the bay, below;
that brushed around the rocks, and vraic;
that found – past land – its upward flow.
A small seed traces through my gaze,
bobbing round, a spectre borne
in secret air; I watch it each
way torn, now trapped upon a thorn.
A bee appears, darts directly
to the wind, shoots up high,
and joins in currents of the air
to vanish quickly in the sky.
The wind now breaks inside my den
and rushes coldly through my heart,
I know the time is come for me
to let my foolish worries part.
With so much good, why should I fear
I’ll helplessly be drawn away?
I’ll choose my mind and set my course and
live, still better, every day.