When you woke at first light and sat up
Out of the dream you’d been having
To ask straight out about Tír na nÓg
The where and when of it all,
Whether Niamh might be waiting there still
I did not know what I should say.
Fairytale? Folktale? Tall tale?
At that unearthly hour the house
Lay still around us
Hanging, like you, on my every next word.
‘Land of the forever young, eternal youth,’
I heard myself half-heartedly begin,
Struggling, like a man fallen instantly old
Bewildered by the enormous weight
Of his own disbelief
By the bolting hooves, their absent clatter,
By the moment galloping riderless
And irretrievable into the dawning distance.