An Irish Walk

by Bob Brussack

You would find them
If they were there,
Beneath the lip of the quay
Or amongst some moss
That’s found a footing in the stone
Or in the damp crevices
Where mortar was.
The Truths, I mean.
The Reasons.
Some assurance.
Even so,
There’s a fine summer chill
Carried on the breeze,
And the muted cheer
Of morning gray,
And voices
Lilting over the water
And down the lanes.
And that’s enough for now.