Naomi Waken's poem about our bench at Drumbeg

On the Bench at Drumbeg Park

My friend's father
never made it to the west,
although all his life
he'd longed for that coast,
and the promise it held.
He'd not been the first to fail,
nor is he likely to be the last.
At his death, she had a bench placed
where he might have viewed
the Strait and the mountains beyond
and the dreams on the horizon
which may not have moved any nearer
even if he had made it to the west.
And when I sit on that bench,
I think, without regret, of things
that never came to fruition,
things that promised, and then turned away.
And gradually, sitting on that bench,
my past fades into the mist
on the far islands, and all I'm aware of
is the sun-warmed bench, and my
sun-warmed body, and
the healing power of Drumbeg.

Naomi Wakan
naomiwakan.com