I remember well those golden days
when the world was fresh, and I was young
and eager, apprenticed to the trade
of life.
I recall listening to the salmon’s plash
in pools of bright water; I see again
the quick gleam of sunlight
on silver.
I remember well the warmth of sun-filled meadows,
where fat , lazy cattle wandered, grazing,
and women sang soft songs, like the drone
of summer bees.
But I remember too the clash of iron
as we tried our weapons in a forest glade,
and Fiachra, my master, scolding me
when I failed.
And I remember well those boyhood friends,
stout-hearted lads who stood beside me
in battle, when our fledgling courage faltered,
but always held.
And Aoife, my lover, whose sweet embraces
kept me warm on winter nights
as we watched the cold, cold stars,
our hearts entwined.
And the sweet magic music of the fili;
those poets who could shape the world
and weave the unformed fabric of creation
into something new.
But those days are gone now, lost;
the world has shifted and moved on,
and memories, once vivid, will soon start fading
like autumn mist
For I am old now; they say I should be wise
But wisdom does not ease the aching bones
or feed the empty belly
on a winter’s morn.
Wisdom comes with age, or so I’m told,
but I would swap all the wisdom of the ages
for the ignorance and innocence of youth.
Bill Fitzsimons