The Shore of Loch Erne

Gaelic by his Mag-Guire Clan heritage
the direct descendant of chieftains
of the former Kingdom of Fermannah,
the alderman eyed each grain of sand.

Fine white crystal sand of distant lands
sifted down through a bottleneck sieve
depleting each second in an hour's span
just to turn it over and watch it again.

Another evening spent in sleeplessness,
wandering memories in slumber's stead,
recalling the hour of his first encounter
of the day he met his bonnie lass.

Her forlorn figure could be faintly seen
from aloft his manor house balcony,
she was stuck amidst a wetland bog,
tangled in tall grass and cattail reeds.

She was mired nearly waist-deep in peat
Her strength waning, about to cease,
as the evening cold began creeping in,
the bog's muddy grip would not release.

As a gentleman compelled to help,
he quickly adorned his riding coat.
From the saddle hung a length of rope
as he rode out in haste to save her.

A parliament of old grey-horned owls
perched nearby, watched in curiosity
from the boughs of an Alder Tree Fearn
in the forest by the shore of Loch Erne.

For his assistance, she was grateful
the look on her face assured him
as he pulled her free with ease
into his arms embrace, mud-caked.

As they stood by the water's edge
showers of petals fell around them,
velvet-like white apple blossoms
felt like gentle kisses caressing skin.

He formally introduced himself
by way of name, rank and title.
She replied in kind, her name Eileen
by way of a curtsy while she smiled.

Her voice was like a lark's sweet trill,
resonating as if time stood still
he knew then that one day soon
she would assume his family name.

He courted her and gave all his ardor
a string of pearls that he bought her.
Reciting poetry that he'd write her,
keeping promises that he made her.

In the gardens, one perfect evening
as they danced beneath the stars
he pulled her in even closer still
and whispered something in her ear.

He said to her the prettiest flower
he ever had the chance to pluck
was one he found just by luck
growing wild in the mud and muck.

She couldn't help but laugh and grin
his sweetest bonnie lass, Eileen.
But fate had made other plans
to come and take her away from him.

Her fate arrived before that spring,
depriving her of her wedding day.
She'd wear her white dress anyway,
vows were traded on final breaths.

She was laid to rest in flower beds
in the garden where they danced,
filled with the scent of emptiness
and floweret blooms of Bonnie Lass.

A parliament of old grey-horned owls
asked why not who for the first time
perched up high in an Alder Tree Fearn
in the forest by the shore of Loch Erne.