Poem for Thursday and St. Brigid's Well

From "St. Brigid's Well" 

By Jonas Zdanys 

The pitch of the rag tree

across from the eternal field

is indifferent to the solitary

bird hung like a piece

of old cloth on a branch

with a thin black wire.

The silence of dry grass

ripples down the rows

of ordered fences, darkness

lumbering toward the barn,

one lit lamp in its hand.

On the pile of strange rocks,

a blue rag flutters toward

the hole in the ground,

marred in a helpless sprawl.

The hour passes,

lost in the shape of light.

Rain begins

as morning rises,

circles and passes

on the clear surface

of the bay.

It’s summer now.

The holy fire,

narrow and formless,

moves among

the spirals

of spider webs

and weeds

up across

the headlands.

Tiny blue flowers,

moulting feathers,

three of us

dreaming of small winds

as lights in distant

houses go out.

As they gather their nets

from the prophecies

of darkening water,

fishermen pray

for a way home,

for the taste of dust

to settle again

in their cold mouths.

-------- 

Most of my Thursday involved the usual struggle with Facebook to upload, organize, and label trip photos -- it's been so long since I put together an album like this that I forgot how difficult Facebook makes every aspect of it, from having to tag every photo's location individually to the fact that all dates get set to the latest date every time a new photo is added and I can't find any setting to stop that from happening. 

Otherwise, it was a lovely, chilly day, we walked to the beach, we saw several eagles, we looked for the full moon. My Thursday night chat group only had three people this week -- one was traveling, one was helping her kid move -- so after the Guardians walk-off and the Dodgers blowout, we watched a bunch of Heartstopper episodes. Here are some photos of Brigid's Well in Liscannor, a goddess shrine before it became a Catholic one: