Faolán O’Fionn
There is a chipped, lilac mug of tea balanced somewhat precariously upon the arm of a well-worn armchair, which sits comfortably within the small, stone cottage on the outskirts of Anchor Rock. Its creator, one star-struck painter, greying and grinning, lingers silently in the doorway, gentle gaze resting upon the scene before him.
Close beside is an ageing poet, the dull light of fireplace flames dancing across wrinkled, sun-tanned skin, and the pages of a leather-bound notebook held within cracked palm. Pages trickle through fingers, their contents echoing a life well-lived; graphite sketches, hastily-scribbled lists, plans of travel, poetry and confession and apology and pure, pure adoration. A blank sheet is found, at last, and ink is once more put to calling paper, spilling forth ruminations of a time long since passed.
As hours pass, eyes grow weary, and our poet leans to place his final work at his feet. Faolán leans back in the chair, and holds an outstretched hand to the figure he knows still to be near. At once, Rider draws close, and the two allow a familiar quiet to blanket the home.
The tea has grown cold, now. It matters not.
to carry beyond - faolán o’fionn
it is something holy
something aching and sickly and bleeding
to be fleeting
to die
what could it mean
to hold a life eternal
to grasp the weeping stars
to wrench them from their nest
and simply
breathe on
to watch the dancing mortals
limbs and hearts entangled
in rotten knots of desperate sorrow
to uproot a thing once living and
tear asunder
cast aside
but to watch those things, then
crawl and care and caress
to peck and pick and pet
til something beautiful stands quivering
wailing and squinting
yet singing still
in the bitter light of morning
a creature born anew
shattered pieces forced together
held close with petals and poems and prose
the thing knows, though
it cannot stay
whole
and as fast as it is formed
it is apart
once more
one becomes many and one all the same
ocean and sky may tear
finger from hand
limb from torso
feature from face
but the thing
it is not shattered
it is not crumbling
it is one
the thing bleeds
it aches
it retches
one day
every part of it will die
it will return to the earth
perhaps,
it is but the nature of a thing
so beautiful to be
so fleeting
By Ace D.