Like Celtic knots the smoke unfurls and gives
The air an illuminated quality.
Breathed in, blown out, it dies and then it lives.
It gives the room a kind of sublimity.
The cherry heart comes from fire, but air
Keeps the fire alive. A balance must
Be struck. Calm, deliberate, like prayer,
The fire must be fanned. Give in to trust
And let the smoke like incense rise in rings,
In swirls and curls, like Kells now come to life.
And see how like a thurible it sings
Of a world with airish spirits, rife
With things unseen and so unheard of, whole.
All this and more pours from the poet’s bole.