Breakfast at Dan’s

They love it, love Mac Cumhaill’s face’s
craggy slopes, these pastel walls
and moss-blest grey slate roofs.

They love to nestle snug against
the wilder greens, the rougher greys
(his weathered skin, in truth).

They laugh their warmth ‘gin morning chill,
‘gin soggy clouds the cobalt sky
reminding who is king.

Black iron curls hold oval clay,
mosaic tiles in it inlaid
of brightest brown and blue.

I would forgive, should you forget:
though art, this lovely chair is naught
but sand, and fire, and ore.

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5 thoughts on “Breakfast at Dan’s

  1. Nadia, that is gorgeous! Your images are … so tactile, yet visceral. I haven’t figured out what I’m feeling yet … the power that’s at the core of things. There’s a sadness and acceptance and joy and beauty all at once. Love it.

  2. Poetry is not usually hard work for me, but this one was. I sat there waving my hand like a mad conductor to get the rhythm perfect. I worried a lack of familiarity with the place I refer to in the title would make it hard to appreciate, so I’m delighted it spoke beyond local knowledge.Thanks for your encouragement. (c:

  3. Poems are puzzles to me that I just can’t stop fiddling with. Move a line here, shorten one there, this word fitting better at the end, which then means that word doesn’t work over there …

    I don’t know. I transitioned fine from the view to the table. I felt the whole place. But I can see what you mean. I like how that large view outdoors is brought into the closer, intimate chair.

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