On the last day in Belfast, Northern Ireland, I went for a rainy walk with clips and poems in hand. Hung from trees and rustic door handles, nestled in mossy logs and tires, resting on window sills and table tops, my poems each found their place.

In Northern Ireland the very air carries music, the water is thick with poetic intent and I walked in that landscape rich with literary history and beauty and felt somewhat restored. My bits of paper became a simple proof I passed this way. And like other bits of me I leave behind to mark my way, my poems are waiting to be found and carried home.