The Grassland Ocean of Mongolia, A vision for Sean Braiden
by Theo Dorgan
I think of you driving to the edge of town
And beyond the edge, out and over into the ocean of tall
The wind combing the long hair of the yellowing grass
And the grass sighing under the hand of the wind.
There will be a high blue sky and in the far distance
Where the deep ocean swell rises to a round crest
A horseman in cut–out against infinite blue light.
Now I think of you far out at sea, the coast of Clare
A blue smudge on the horizon. I make it a hooker
Because I can, and because I wish for you
The feet–planted feel of salt raw boards rising and falling.
Behind the horizon a steep rise of green and then a high
Wall of cloud against pale blue. Like yurts on the green
The whitewashed cottages, their flashing window panes.
Now you must write the rest. What the heart yearns for
On the grassy plains, what the heart thirsts for on the salt
And what the mind conjures from the mind inside when
Eternity opens before you like the open book of home.