Molly & I go walking

A poem about an afternoon spent at an Irish forest with my young daughter

Molly and I go,
down to the pine trees singing
birds by the window,
red church bells ringing

it’s July, in windbreakers & woolly hats
and you ask “what’s that? And that? And THAT!?”

maybe in a month of Sundays,
or maybe in some rare feat
we’ll make it the whole way,
then home for tea

and if we’re up all night, I don’t mind,
I’d walk a mile twice to be at your side