Anam Cara

MOUNTAIN CHRISTENING

For Nöel Hanlon

Poor wounded name! my bosom, as a bed shall lodge thee…

—SHAKESPEARE

After a hard climb

Through a dry river-bed,

Its scoured stones glistening

Like a white chain to the horizon,

Descending between its links

The long concerto of a stream

Where the listening mountains incline,

Rising against the steep fall of soft bog,

Searching for our grip

In the shimmer of scree.

At last on the summit

Of the Beanna Beola,

Overlooking three valleys,

Delighted to be so high

Above the lives where we dwell,

Together for a while

From other sides of the world,

Sensing each other,

Strangely close,

Suddenly, your voice

Calling out my name.

I call yours.

The echoes take us

To the heart of the mountains.

When the silence closes,

You say: Now that they

Have called our names back

The mountains can

Never forget us.