I hear it.
\nIn the distance. Over the cliffs. The arctic breeze carries the tune.<\/p>\n
It flies over the waves that crash against ancient granite.<\/p>\n
A stirring. In my blood. Something ancient like the sea against the stones.<\/p>\n
The tune rolls on sea air brushing grass fields where wolves hunt.<\/p>\n
It echoes still through the waves providing its chorus.<\/p>\n
Gliding over villages singing about Molly Malone<\/p>\n
And through a wooden door held on cast iron hinges<\/p>\n
Forged by the blacksmith. Who is still the blacksmith<\/em> after generations.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll have a pint of the black stuff\u201d and my bartender smiles.<\/p>\n My accent is wrong. But my face says that somewhere down the line,<\/p>\n The drunk English girl who kept yelling \u2018Tipperary\u2019 at me at my bar back home,<\/p>\n Might\u2019ve been on to something. For posterities sake, he asks where I\u2019m from.<\/p>\n I sigh, and that\u2019s all the answer he needs. He laughs. A massive laugh.<\/p>\n Then he asks my name. I tell him and he says \u201cBoyo, coulda fooled meh oot the gaet\u201d<\/p>\n The strings start again. This time, something new. Something that reminds me of from her icy blue eyes. She\u2019s the one who tells me to stay.<\/p>\n And to experience the end of life as I know it. I say I might, though I know I will.<\/p>\n It\u2019s the air. Not filled with the smog and shards of fragile promises or the glittering<\/p>\n Of shattered dreams. No \u2018know-a-guy-who-knows-a-guy\u2019 or \u2018pay-to-play.\u2019<\/p>\n Only life, fresh greens and bright blues.<\/p>\n Ferries to the market and pints when the day is out.<\/p>\n Brought together by four strings.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I hear it. In the distance. Over the cliffs. The arctic breeze carries the tune. It flies over the waves that crash against ancient granite. A stirring. In my blood. Something ancient like the sea against the stones. The tune rolls on sea air brushing…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":936,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7,13],"tags":[10,2157,2210,2156,2155],"class_list":["post-37517","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-marathon-poem","category-miscellaneous","tag-poetry","tag-theoffendedstraightwhiteguy","tag-thepoetrymarathon2017","tag-warrior-poetry","tag-witness"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/37517","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/936"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=37517"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/37517\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":38049,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/37517\/revisions\/38049"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=37517"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=37517"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=37517"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nvoluptuous, red curls, on an even wilder girl. the highland air whips clouds of mist<\/p>\n