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?