11.

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 grass fields where wolves hunt.

It echoes still through the waves providing its chorus.

Gliding over villages singing about Molly Malone

And through a wooden door held on cast iron hinges

Forged by the blacksmith. Who is still the blacksmith after generations.

“I’ll have a pint of the black stuff” and my bartender smiles.

My accent is wrong. But my face says that somewhere down the line,

The drunk English girl who kept yelling ‘Tipperary’ at me at my bar back home,

Might’ve been on to something. For posterities sake, he asks where I’m from.

I sigh, and that’s all the answer he needs. He laughs. A massive laugh.

Then he asks my name. I tell him and he says “Boyo, coulda fooled meh oot the gaet”

The strings start again. This time, something new. Something that reminds me of
voluptuous, red curls, on an even wilder girl. the highland air whips clouds of mist

from her icy blue eyes. She’s the one who tells me to stay.

And to experience the end of life as I know it. I say I might, though I know I will.

It’s the air. Not filled with the smog and shards of fragile promises or the glittering

Of shattered dreams. No ‘know-a-guy-who-knows-a-guy’ or ‘pay-to-play.’

Only life, fresh greens and bright blues.

Ferries to the market and pints when the day is out.

Brought together by four strings.

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