–      After Danny Boy, by Frederic Weatherly

The morning is heavy, with moisture
like tears gathering in slate skies,
mounting up to overwelling, feeling
like attempt to cool oppressive summer
heat that clings, nail and tooth
to the day’s possibilities. 

And I remember, I wonder
if I can hear the pipes,
        calling, calling…

             (The melancholy whistling
              of breath through a tunnel
              of smooth-shapen wood;
              my own personal folklore)

Somewhere, somewhen,
the laughter of children
gone silent, eyes like glass
and mystified, following
a stranger, in the streets
of Hamelin, deft fingers
dancing a row of holes
like knots in a tree, until
innocence is tucked to bed
in unseen caves.

And I wonder, did they even
hear the pipes,
                        calling,
                                    calling…

             (The melancholy whistling
              of breath through a tunnel
              of dark and lonely woods; 
              a diasporic folklore)

Somewhere else, somewhen other
passengers aboard Flight 153
enter wispy clouds, and
disappear, in folds unknown,
til decades later, in the flimsy rags
of a tabloid—reemerge
articulated and skeletal remains
in their seats.  Arms around necks,
heads upon shoulders.  Fictional
as they may be, I can see them.

And I wonder, could they
hear the pipes,
                        calling,
                                    calling…

             (The melancholy whistling
              of breath through a tunnel
              of half-forgotten woods;
              an urban folklore)

I remember—I returned
from a Europe sleeping, feeling
much the same, bones laid out
to dry, an innocence lost
in different caves, years ago,

fit for moisture, in a different
summer, different
heat and gathering rain, and

I’m older, now—I’ve left the fold
of that time, that space.  The sun
feels like it will beat the clouds
from the skies, over this deck,
over the red umbrella hanging
over the oxidized metal
of the table that supports
this laptop. 

But I feel the years
mounting, and I feel
this love, like a long-held breath, and

I wonder if this sound
I hear, calling,
                        calling,
                                     is you,

or me,
or her (it’s her.  It’s always
her) or just the pipes

             (their melancholy whistling
              that breath, that single breath,
              through a tunnel of internal woods;
              the ending, or the beginning
              of folklore) 

I’m still writing.