Last Morning at Ballynahinch Castle

[brynmawr1]

Last Morning at Ballynahinch Castle

It’s just me and the morning sun
and a pot of strong coffee among
the song of anonymous birds and
the fisherman below my terrace
balanced on the bank of the Owenmore
having tied a semblance of hope
to the end of his line, which he floats
over the water to the metronome 
of his lagging heart, again and again
he lays the long snake of his line to drift
with the roil unconcerned about what gifts
might rise from these dark waters.

This isn't the poem I set out to write.  The original was much more ambitious, but I put that aside for a cleaner version.  Maybe someday I'll expand.