The Owl Run

Son, it waits for you: the red, the black 

and the gold of that rejuvenating ground, 

in that piece of Glencullen known as the Owl Run. 

Do not doubt that it waits for you. 

And do not doubt its power. Transformation, hand

in hand with healing, dwells in the Owl Run.

A form of wandering is required. As with

the art of living, to locate the Owl Run 

requires that you value uncertainty.

I wish that I could take you there, shepherd you,

but my own most recent Glencullen adventures 

have led me on to another mission.

My life (I almost used the word soul) of late

is a North Mayo ricochet. Atlantic sun 

pluming up from apocalyptic moorland

is the core truth and the better part of my brain.

I want the same for you. But today the best I can do 

is to send you, out of the blue, this note.

Forget your phone. Head south and take the third left 

down the black road that flanks the black 

Glencullen River. Observe the slowing effect

of that long cul de sac on your blood. 

You’ll come to a broad forbidding hill 

in whose green lap the pot of the source is clamped.

It will be quiet, but be ready for conversation. 

I met an old man there who spoke of being 

driven to Dublin by a barefoot woman 

sixty years ago. I have made use of that nugget; 

Glencullen’s quietness is all narrative.

From the last house, you will see, up the valley, 

the horizontal brightness that makes the lake.

Linger if you will, but then descend.

The Owl Run is four low fields, the scar tissue

and the print of a village. You’ll meet clarity there.

And a fullness, son, of Glencullen red and black

and gold, will rush at the fullness of your trouble.