Artist’s Way / Wild Atlantic Way

About a decade ago I participated in a facilitated Artist’s Way group. (This is not it, but it gives you an idea.) We met at the home of the group facilitator and worked our way, one chapter a week, through the book. And it did get all of us feeling quite creative.

I’d been to Ireland about a year before, and this poem just popped out one day. (Disclaimer: I’m not a real, practiced poet. I just play with words and feelings.)

High on a windy cliff in the northwest,
peering into the afternoon sun lying on the sea below
like golden rose petals
floating on the perfect azure-blue.
And I am moved, without a word,
to tears. Sun and salt and spray and sea
call to ancient blood
that stirs in me. Older than me.
Older than time.
I am standing on the edge of the world,
the very edge of the world.
Ahead, the road curves away from the cliffs,
heading inland, and I turn to go,
leaving behind my heart’s cry
and the wild, wild western sea.


Sun shining on the North Atlantic.

Sun shining on the North Atlantic.

It amuses me now that the Irish tourism industry has developed a route they call the Wild Atlantic Way. And guess what? I’m planning to drive it when I return to western Ireland in a couple weeks.

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