Tir'Na Noir

It's black November, the ocean crushes against the shore
A shipwrecked dream from a summer-green land.
But I still remember beautiful Mary McKear,
far west in Tir n'a Noir

Were you a dream? Were you real? Were you flesh? Were you blood?
I can hear you laugh. I can remember I laughed.

Beyond horizons,
so weathered and fading,
you are mine,
my Mary McKear.

When my rusty body moves heavily uphill
I hear someone whisper behind the young vines:

Come back, friend, from bars and debauchery.
Come back to Tir n'a Noir.
Come to flesh. Come to mind from all that is gray.
I will stroke your cheek, make your eyes blue.

For beyond horizons,
so weathered and fading,
I am yours,
your Mary McKear.

So when the evening comes and I quietly go aboard,
and my lifeboat is buried six feet under,
I sail west into the sea to Mary McKear in
the green Tir n'a Noir.

To dream and to cheek and a sky of solace
where everything is calm and I hear your voice:

Horizons do not exist.
Everything you touch remains.
I am yours,
your Mary McKear.