Ireland beloved land where his darling so longed to live. He promised her that one day, when they saved enough money, they would move to Ireland.
He was not really that old, not as old as observers thought he should be.
With his ragged clothes, the same ones he had worn for a few years now, he looked old, as old as time.
He felt old as he shuffled along the streets every day, looking for bits of food or something of value that had been tossed away.
Maybe an old wallet that had seen better days and is now worn out and empty, just like his heart.
He once had a love of an angel, a beautiful love with his sweet wife. So delicate was she, feminine and slender, like a faery queen that romped in the meadows.
Delightfully she laughed as he chased her through fields of wildflowers.
Her golden red hair flew in the wind as she ran, then he would catch her and they would roll among the sweet scent of flowers,
Her laughter echoing throughout the meadow and filling his heart with joy.
Her dream was to some day go to Ireland, her spiritual home she called the Emerald Isle.
Where her ancestors walked in days of old, and all the stories of folks were told.
Her green eyes sparkled when he promised her, someday they will live in a cottage there.
In the land of his beloved ~
Then she was gone – gone to her beloved lands in spirit. Gone from his life yet ever in his heart.
Only in spirit now did she run, laugh and linger in his arms when nights were cold,
Long nights when he dreamed, then woke with nothing but his pillow to hold.
The only dream left to him was to find a million dollars, go to Ireland, buy a little cottage, grow beautiful flowers, for her.
Where he could sit on warm summer evenings, watching her flowers gently sway in the breeze.
There he would live out his days in peace, with the scent of her filling all his senses.
There he would die, in the land of her ancestors – such a foolish dream, but relentless.
A million dollars! Ireland beloved land, only a dream.
He shuffled along the now empty and dark streets, alone in despair as his thoughts wandered.
I could end it now and be with her again. Yet that would be a mighty sin.
I must go on alone till I die, somewhere in a hole, dark and alone with gin, or maybe rye.
Ireland beloved land ~
He hears a whisper, gentle on the breeze, it is her voice! Let it be, please.
“Follow me, follow me” … he follows and stops when a small piece of paper lands at his feet.
He picks it up, but cannot see what it is. “Follow me…follow me”, the sweet voice echoed.
He takes the paper, a little card, to a store, close by, the old man there his only friend.
“Tell me what the paper is. Read it to me, friend, I have no glasses to see words, but she sent it to me.”
The old man looks at the paper, then looks at a list on his clipboard, frowning, then a smile breaks on his wrinkled face.
“Well, with this, my friend, you can buy all the glasses you need.
It is the only winning lotto ticket for two and a half million dollars I read!”
Ireland beloved land – there he would live and die, in the land of his darling Angel.
Note from author ~
Sometimes, when one has lost their beloved, they cannot deal with that loss and give up on all they once had, even themselves – unless there is a miracle ahead which could help one live again. That miracle could be something as simple as finding a small piece of paper. A winning lotto ticket? Stranger things have happened.
Thank you for reading my poem. The Creative Exiles is my haven for poetry and short stories and I so appreciate your visit.
Blessings and may you always walk in Peace and Harmony, softly upon Mother Earth.
© Copyright 2016 All Rights Reserved Phyllis Doyle Burns
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