When frigid fate has honed its claws upon this stricken soul,
and closed eyes can only watch for stolen dreams;
when there’s always a dark obstacle to bar me from my goal –
it’s then I tread the Tarmac paths to green.
A bright image of the reservoir forms inside my head,
embraced by stately pine and snowy hawthorn
and, as I quickly near this vision, a peace replaces dread;
I gather strength, and hope somehow re-forms.
As sheer chemise of satin shadow slips down verdant tor
to recline at gleaming feet of golden gorse,
I realise the unimportance of work, and wealth, and war:
the worthlessness of man’s careering course.
Thus, gradually, all care and woe drain from a tortured heart
to disperse upon my homeland’s bracing air.
Each time life’s traumatic tumbles have played their crippling part
in wounding me, I head for vistas fair.
Through the townland of Creevagh – out the long road to Killlea –
eagerly my trekking feet beat out the pain
upon an asphalt surface, which gaily makes its winding way
to the countryside which keeps this poet sane.