Coole Park
I do not enter lightly, holding a cherished flame so small
and my breath high in my throat.
The undiluted possibility of your hallowed pathways
not even slightly diminished by facilitating tarmac and cafe where I might doff my coat
and chat to a companion and pretend I am not bewitched.
Luckily, the two who accompany me are nature’s slaves.
They bow at her every breeze murmur and wind shriek,
touch her bark, pick her blossoms, whistle in her caves.
