This is a poem written for Vere, in Anaverna, long ago. It was a birthday poem, read out at a party in Anaverna. Vere lived in Ceylon, long ago.
I lived at Anaverna, long ago. It’s all a distant dream..
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Vere, floating on a lake–
Painted blue and swathed in silk,Â
How far he drifts from the evening Pavillion
While Aya sings a lullaby: Nini Baba Nin.
Under the Cooley Mountain
He wears a green Sinn Fein shirt
Playing croquet on the lawn,Â
Plotting an artists’ refuge with his son.
A trail of poets arrive late, but in a row,
Dance a CĂ©ilĂdh in the ballroom,
Disappear into a veil of smoke.Â
We sail out to the forestÂ
And find our feet, under the beech trees
While, Upstairs in the attic,Â
Over a pile of old suitcases
The moon shines
Through the skylight.Â
The same moon as the one in Ceylon.
The poets howl
And tea is served, but not from Ceylon.
– © Siofra O’Donovan, 2022
So previously lovely
I remember you at a party, barely on the stage, you'd a great time. Beautiful lines.