Fingers of afternoon sun knead the green. What water has already sculpted the sun brings into relief. Grooved rivulets become golden tresses falling from the crown of Benbaun: a northern view of the Twelve Bens.
I turn off the main road, having come from Kylemore Abbey. Water’s desire for water is evident in the deeply etched runnels pouring down into the lough, patches of bracken like rust stains defining the green. A rock. A sheep. A rock. Sheep. Sheep.
There is a white house opposite. Discrete yet humble at the mountain’s foot. Kylemore Lough concedes the house’s simple beauty, showing it its face. Also reminds it of its place, the mountain mirrored, looming. This side the reeds shimmer. From this angle it seems the house must be reached by water. Later I look up a map and realise that there is a narrow road. Pity, I like the idea of a house that has only a water-road.
In the lake middle is a man in a blue boat, fishing.
Is he alone the man ? Ah, no. See the pull on the line, a submarine challenge. See the bird swoop the sky, curious. The man enjoys the sun on his back. Distinct but not apart. Bird, man; fish; sun; lake; sky. Sheep. Rock. And the mountain. Distinct but not alone. Communing. And me.
Man in the boat
your boat lend to me.
Read me the mountain
tell me the sky.
Let me be in your boat
my face to the sky
wind-shimmered, water-borne.
O man in the boat
It is water-blessing I need ,
water-promise I meet.
