loving a folly much more
than the true ruined buildings.
understanding the instinct
to embellish creation,
and sharing that instinct yourself.
this land was once guinness’s
(gentry, beers later). they lived here
and owned most of dublin.
my aunt knows the history – tells it
whenever we walk. the fire
which burned the great house down;
a gunstore, a scheduled inventory.
a half-myth of arson by grounds staff
conspired for the cover
of stealing and sale. and they pulled down
the ruin of the house – just follies
about now, all hid in odd
corners – fake ancient pillars
and built-collapsed walls,
a bridge overlooking
the river. I like it – like details
an unconfident painter
would add to their landscape
to liven the style of a hill. that’s what it is –
it’s garden gnomes, duck ponds.
it’s sunflowers sticking from lawns.
in the high trees, apparently storks
build their nests. or maybe it’s herons –
some half-man-sized shape
of a bird. you can see them in autumn
when the leaves thin a little,
like warts on the face of the sky.
Artwork by: Piet Mondrian
