I crossed the longest mountain range overnight in a Boeing 757, last row from the back right by the restrooms. Banging doors, nauseous flush after flush couldn’t stop the rush because, for the first time in my life, I was headed somewhere. I won’t lie, it was bumpy crossing that cold mid-ocean ridge, even from miles overhead, but the lushness of Ireland awaited me. The lime grass around St. Patrick’s Cathedral, wet from rain, and the bells that Sunday morning sang, and sang, and sang. It was my first time hearing the bells, don’ you now, and to feel the freshness of the morning in a new place, well the flag of freedom was lifted. Ireland, as good a place as any for a fairytale to begin.
Blarney stone kisses,
mountains are meant to be crossed;
a new yarn to spin.
D’Verse Poet’s Pub Haibun Monday-Frank is our host. Write a haibun about a Cold Mountain. Join us.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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