I loved sitting outside with my borrowed harp between lessons,
playing in the little grassy courtyard.
The yellow roses surrounding the courtyard were gloriously fragrant
and as bright as the sun that did, indeed, shine all week.
One afternoon, I was trying to work out the second half of a song I was composing. The gardener, Fintan, was trimming the roses and stopped to listen. He said my song was lovely and asked what it was called. I told him I didn't know yet and asked if he had any ideas. He said, he wasn't a musician or a poet, but that, "As long as you don't put Termonfechin in the title, it will be fine." And we had a good laugh together.
"How about 'The Road to An Grianan' for a title?" I asked him.
He shook his head thoughtfully. Then he turned around, clipped a rose for me, handed it to me with a flourish and said, "How about 'The ROSE of An Grianan' for a title?"
Who's not a poet, Fintan the Gardener?
"The Rose of An Grianan" will always be dedicated to you.
I said goodbye to Fintan and started to gather up my things for the afternoon's class. When I wrapped my scarf around my neck, I saw a flash of white.
A feather had landed on my shoulder.
Remember when the feather landed on my hand in Chartres, France, last year? Yep, important things going on.