And a blackbird broke the silence
As you whistled it so sweet
And in Brendan Behan's footsteps
I danced up and down the street

Shane McGowan

Desert Garden, all welcome

There is more to life than increasing it's speed.

- Mahatma Ghandi

If it's not too much trouble, you could leave poems on my garden wall, so I don't miss them. 

Thank you for your poem of hope.

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you'll park or capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open

Seamus Heaney

The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley...
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp...
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people hardly marching... on the hike...
We found new tactics happening each day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until... on Vinegar Hill... the final conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August... the barley grew up out of our grave.

Seamus Heaney

Thanks for the poetry! Xx

All along the dank, sunk, rock-floored lane
To the acropolis in Sparta, we couldn’t help
Tramping on burst shells and crunching down
The high-gloss horse-chestnuts. I thought of kelp
And foals’ hooves, bladderwort, dubbed leather
As I bent to gather them, a hint of ordure
Coming and going off their tainted pith…’
    From ‘Conkers’ in Electric Light (2001).

       Seamus Heaney

This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.
Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.
If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on fresh pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.

JOHN O'DONOHUE

It's nice of you to ask, I have my ups and downs as should be expected but I think she's at peace now and that's what matters most.