Answers
“Why was I born?”
called the Jackdaw to the Raven.
“What’s the purpose of my life?”
whispered Piglet to Ratty.
“What does it mean?”
hissed Michelangelo to Raphael
with sour on his face.
“Where am I going?”
shouted a Dublin woman from the Northside
to Molly Malone.
“When will my answer be enough?”
I said to myself.
Dreams
Moses never led his people to the promised land
Magellan never sailed his ships home
Puccini never finished his journey to Turandot
I’ve never reached my daydreams.
I led up to them,
talking and walking
barefoot on moss,
across streams
to the other side.
I reached for them on tippy-toes
never let go.
That’s my trouble
I’m no Michelangelo
and so I watch those daydreams
grow and grow
into memories
– elephants in my room –
wondering what Moses felt
as he watched the people
leave the desert
their daydreams shining.
Maybe it’s a feast to simply daydream
and trek on
until I lose the breath for daydreams
and ‘in that sleep of death‘
dream on.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 