He can conjure Niamh,

galloping on the strand,

flying hair, billowing sleeve,

her horse’s hooves dinting

the smooth sand that shines

like pewter with the sky’s

reflected light.

That’s Ireland—no one blinks.

But try that here: It’s wrong,

it rings false right away.

Myths here are not like that,

the land has no such queen.

There’s just the earth itself:

drumlins made of glacial till,

wiry, scrappy flowers—

chicory, aster, Queen Anne’s lace—

by the rough-mown stubble

along the berm.

Niamh will never splash

along the shoreline here,

the hoofprints of her horse

filling up with shining water.

But the Ordovician shale I skip

will serve a like purpose,

will dot its mark at intervals

on the lake’s bright surface.