Old Stones

Old Stones

A million years I lay among these hills and fields,
pushed by shifting earth,
great ice sliding me about,
wind and rain sculpting my edges
until just now,
when your father picked me up
to fill a small void in the wall.

The larger stones have long been cleared
by your father,
your father's father
and before him - his father
to make a space for meager crops,
keep the scrawny cattle in
and claim a tiny bit of earth as their own.

Now, shamrocks grow
where root crops once were wrestled from the rocky soil
and coastal grass allowed to search for life
for small herds now to find a meager graze.

Your father stops to rest
There is no hurry in the work
Weathered hands search a wool trousers' pocket,
retrieve an old bandanna,
to wipe a knowing brow.

No one lives here now,
but some still come here, like your father,
to protect and preserve
and revere-
keeping something alive
that sprouted and grew here
along with root crops and tall grass -
your heritage.

The land will someday belong to you,
and your father speaks reverently
of hard history and rich legacy -
sacrifice and celebration -
and the worthiness of constancy.

You cannot quite make out the great ocean from here
or the town of Dingle on the inlet,
where tourists wander,
streets cluttered with brightly painted cottages
and happy old pubs.

Your father has a law office there,
upstairs over O'Connor's,
where he downs a pint or two on Friday nights,
and sometimes can be heard to speak "The Irish.

There are others too, who know the stories and the songs -
adventurous sea stories and hardscrabble land stories -
stories of Druids before Time itself,
and of Father Hannigan
who gave up the cloth for a sailor's widow.

One day,
when you are more able to put things into prospective,
your father will tell you of Sean, your uncle
who disobeyed his father and went to make his fortune
rowing a dory out of Dingle Inlet
to cast nets for Haddock.

He was a farmer's son,
and no match for the treacheries of deep green water.
For a long time, it was said,
he could be heard to make his apologies,
especially when the wind blew from the west.

This is the birthplace of stones.
Stone houses, barns, churches,
and walls of every length and height
reflect the toil and ingenuity of human history.

From the time creatures crawled in from the sea
seeking shelter in a waterless world,
or, later, when "civilization evolved
and other creatures came in from Viking ships,
stones have prevailed.

Listen to your father.
as each stone is carefully placed,
each word carefully chosen

Your heritage is as much a part of the land here
as the stones.