The Walker

Tired feet,
Aching legs
And heavy shoulders.
Stiff neck,
Dry lips
And cold ears.
But cheeks flushed,
Eyes keen
And hair swept. 

Walking in The Garden of Ireland

There are an endless string of hellos,
As I walk the Wicklow way.
With the steady thud and crunch of my feet
Across hills and mountains,
I'm not sure which.
Crows gliding with the wind
And the screams of deer riding on it.
A chilling sound, colder than the air,
Though still a sight when near.
A map guides me
And from Laragh to Mullacor I trekked,
Before the Spink brought me to Glendalough
On a blessed day,
The sun shining upon my back
And rain held at bay.
Yet the contours never give up
And for a day, that's enough. 

Sitting somewhere above Lough Dan, Wicklow

Sheltering between knuckled rocks,
Looking across a misty space
Whilst above the mirrored loch.
The only sound, nature's silence;
The unseen win brushing by
And the drizzle pattering my sack.
A distant call from within the gorse,
As I take to my feet
Of course, the wind finds new voice,
Now pushing, rather than brushing past.
For the moment I share the sky with the clouds,
Gathering and flowing on.
But I'll be meeting the ground again,
Not before long,
As I take to my deer
And head on.