I wrote a poem, which was a bridge between my experiences
in Ireland and my home experience of growing up
in the Northwest.
And this occurred because my sister
who's 13 years younger than I am joined me in Ireland.
And we got to know each other all over again there.
Because we had another neutral ground I suppose,
we made this great hitchhiking tour all around south
of Ireland.
And then I said goodbye to her at Dun Leary,
where the boat takes off.
And at some point, we realized that we
had a very special language that was
composed of all the things we knew about our home.
And this was a very precious to us.
So I wanted to write a poem for her.
My book by the way is dedicated to her.
This is called Still Moment at Dun Leary.
You crossed the ramp.
It's sure suspension above the blue rope net.
That means water.
Not seen for this nearness of ship to dock.
Now, it is below you, a channel you
will think of as an ocean, where we met once and talked back
into a lost continent childhood, and a single house that
keeps us sisters.
You were right to call it a language.
The way I will know that tree blocking
the view of the Peninsula and the bluff dropping away
each year.
So the house must stand with conviction flanked
by the blue spruce, the swing set waiting for our brother's
children.
Already, we are more together for how the house looks back
on us.
Through the glass, your face will float away
like a ship of its own over the boundary
that knows with us the world is steady in another view.
Look back.
There is a woman beside me.
Younger, older waving as you are waving.
Yet with your blond hair, wound and pinned into this distance.