Where an ash bush grows in the lake a ring of stones has broken cover in this summer's drought. Not high enough to be an island, it holds a disc of stiller water in the riffled lake. Trees have reclaimed the railway line behind us; behind that, the road goes east— as two lines parallel in space and time run away from us this discovered circle draws us in. In drowned towns bells toll only for sailors and for the credulous but this necklace of wet stones, remnant of a wattle Atlantis, catches us all by the throat. We don't know what beads or blades are held in the bog lake's wet amber but much of us longs to live in water and we recognise this surfacing of old homes of love and hurt. A troubled bit of us is kin to people who drew a circle in water, loaded boats with stone, and raised a dry island and a fort with a whole lake for a moat.
From The Wake Forest Series of Irish Poetry, Volume Two, edited by Jefferson Holdridge. Copyright © 2010 by Moya Cannon. Used by permission of Wake Forest University Press. All rights reserved.