Eighteen hundred miles, the geese fly to Ireland for winter, from the glittering tundras and icy cities of the northern world, arriving here,
their silhouettes scratched like Ogham into the skies above the suburbs
They descend on Bull Island, alight in Ringsend
On a still March morning, I am awoken by the calls, announcing their arrival in the warmer climate as they scatter across the field outside my window
Geese have an intense need to communicate, always chattering
they have come to the right place
The home of storytellers, a land where there is no solid word for yes, only specific confirmation, ‘I did,’ ‘we are,’ ‘it is’, a certainty at our core
And so a thousand geese and I, at this moment, gather in the warmth of our shared shore
there is no doubt we are together, in the surest place on Earth
When I see the geese I think of our travelled distance, to be a warmer country, one where those with stories come and share in the way in which we let love grow
like gorse alight across our hills and when I see more birds
coming steadily in
With the thrill of the V formation, an easy understanding
