ESCAPE TO CONNEMARA
In wet suits and helmets, we patch our path,
eyes brimming over moody sea
popping bladder wracks underfoot
en route to the fyord gorge
(it's jagged exactitude dictating our pace)
Something between a fat spider and a secret agent,
I lean backwards dangling from a knotted rope
that guides us through waterfalls and pocketed pools,
deep over hard-sharps and slimy-darks
our ascent hidden by spring foliage
and overhanging rock.
Later we walk a tarred pole free hand,
thirty foot high and fifty foot long
harnassed and clipped to the guide below
a test of balance and trust.
I swell with joy, declaring myself cured
of all demons and ills that might
have taken my life and fun.
Connemara 2004
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