Off course from the frail music sought by the words.
And the path that always claims the journey,
In the pursuit of a more oblique rhythm,
Creating mostly its own geography,
The mind is an old crow
Who knows only to gather dead twigs,
Then take them back to its vacancy
Between the branches of a vacant tree
And entwine them around the emptiness
With silence and unfailing patience
Until what was fallen, withered and lost
Is now set to the fill with dreams as a nest.
From ‘ Conamara Blues ‘ – by John O’Donoghue