A January afternoon;
between myself and Achill Sound
slanting light fires the land
climbs the gable ends of cottages
while, brooding in the background,
Corraun mountain dark and stern
with its crumbling frown of cliffs and ridges
looks from beneath its cap of cloud.
I am walking round and round
my chalet, counting revolutions,
a circuit each pass of the drainpipe;
at sixty I shall stop knowing that
my body will have shed a pound of fat
and in its place, there will be poetry.
This poem was written pretty much as it is with very little or no editing. It was composed in my head while performing the activity described, and I am very grateful it came so easily - one of those gifts we sometimes receive. It makes up for all the hours when struggling to write that seems to occur frequently as part of a writers life.