Turn at the Lilies

Young James of Kerry,

do you know you have the face of Oscar Wilde,

and a sadness behind your eyes

even a stranger can see.

You seek solace among tombstones, it seems.

It’s where I met you, that bitter windswept day,

roaming this ancient graveyard

that lies hard by the sea.

There’s a set of resignation in your shoulders.

For one so young your pace is measured.

There is nowhere else you have to be.

When I ask for directions,

you tell me matter-of-factly,

in your lilting brogue,

“Down the road: turn left at the lilies,”

as if nothing could be simpler.

On a weekday morning in the rain

this is where you have come.

Where did your dreams go, James?

Why is this enough?

Do you know that

you have the face of Oscar Wilde?