Last Wildflower

by Paul Casey

for Rosie

I scaled the cliffs of Moher
to write about the tourists
trekked south till there were no more
barriers, signs of stick men falling
to where I could breathe
alone

right up at the edge where I have always been afraid
                                of imagining
that I have always been
                                and forever will be         falling
    imagine
                   being afraid of imagining
                                                                       falling
and let go
                  spilled
                               back
                                          eyes to sky
clutching burren blossoms                  picked for you

I went in gannet–deep
shot straight into the air
to reclaim my still form
then danced
in the tower of Moher
above the clear blue day

Trace memories of this scene recur
mitochondrial microfilm coaxed open by the sun
these cliffs those islands, the fall
and lay of it, the width & breadth of it
the countless known unknowns
like Mog of the Hundred Battles

or why Clare isn’t in Connacht.
But writing as I walk now
should this ledge crumble
please know you were
the last wildflower
on my mind