Anne Cook                                    

     Took a trip to the emerald isle

         fore warned to beware

          its captivating spell

         still capture me it did.

           Following footsteps

   of those who tread the path before

          listening to whispers

            searching for ghosts

    echoing strains of melancholy tunes

          misty clouds on mountains

      shadows counting heads of sheep

   

            Behind gypsy gates

      wild daisies cover mossy walls   

    where faces known as well as my own

        suggest a story never told

       and mysteries reveal themselves

       across silent fields of stone.

    Carefully crafted grey rock heart

                 waits

      on a sandy shore in Aran

         like coins in a fountain

          keeping wishes safe 

            will I ever return

             will I ever leave?