Crossing the short bridge, I hadn’t expected it,
mainland to island,
so

to those who remain:
this is my prayer, at last.
I dare not intrude.

Yes,
rain was expected, clouds blackening, rolling
on whispering prayers in the hearth warmed room,
filled with the scent of peat and whiskey,
songs and tears. Rusting boats quiver
below red hills of Achill,
What fitting weather

for grief.

Had it been expected? Had death’s cloud rolled in
over grey waters? Had they suddenly appeared?
Sideways rain outside, taking thoughts away from grief,
what fitting weather

for a wake.

Wind, grieving brother,
the sideways rain, all the tears
of a widow’s grief,

and I, intruding.

Driving slowly through the storm, driving slowly
through the grief in my naked visitorship,
Driving slowly past the rocking boats
and spraying surf, driving slowly
past the family and friends huddled
against themselves, making their way
to the fire’s glow.

And then,
a bit farther up the road, farther
into the storm smudged hills, we stopped
dangerously close to true lands end,
where the sudden green of the cliff stood fast
against sky and water.

We stopped at that lands end but,
not driven by love, not pursued
by grief or society, we stayed in the car,

and wept:
Three years later, I will say a prayer
for those that remain.
I will say a prayer to keep me
from intruding.

After a while, wanting to be away from the awe
of natures cycles, the storm left,
moving inland. Or was it merely
I was now moving outland, leaving
storms behind?

To those who remain:
this is my prayer, at last.
I dare not intrude.