He sat alone on a park bench in the coolness of the shade.
The July sun filtered through the trees casting tiny dots-
of light which resembled a dance floors glittering promenade.
He sat now with patience of spirit for he knew she would be here soon.
His hand in his pocket clutching a box that held all his tomorrow’s dreams.
He smiled to himself; he thought of her and of all their future days.
Oh how he loved Ireland in the summertime, he thought, as did his fair lady too.
He pulled the small box out from his pocket and held it close to his beating heart.
And he wondered….
Across the rolling green hills he could see the castle ruins.
Six hundred years and her walls stood though slightly worn.
Much like his very own heart he thought, but in its capacity for love.
Forever is his ideal; never is a word that is not real.
He pulled the small box of dreams away from the edge of his heart.
He opened its tiny lid and…
Then he saw her walking along the winding path.
He closed the box and put it back in his pants and wondered…
He wondered if it was now under this Irish oak that he should ask.
J. Allen Wilson © 6/13/2009**** Full Moon productions 7/7/2009