Picnic At Glendalough Poem by Bernard Kennedy

Two lakes, upper and lower, hotel between,
finding the car park, disembarking, picnic basket with red ribbon and wicker bound tastes, salads, breads, egg, sauce, table cloth, simple lemonade,
meats, and sweet cake for afterwards. Glasses, and cutlery wrapped in white cloths to double for soft binding in journey and napkin.
Then, through hotel grounds to picnic table and setting out the dining space, for two, we sit.
I have climbed those mountains and canoed the lower lake safely and seen the early mist, as if rising from the lake, and stopped at Kevin's bed, a mystic mountain. Tourists from the climb come down and rest red faces, youths lounge around tossing chocolate bars, energy source and having rested kick ball, German, Aussie and French mooch around as families look on, and, older wiser slowly gather in the view.
A saucer of expectation, gathered beneath a local Horeb, a descent from Moses like conversation. An elderly man peels an orange skin, his wife rests back against the wooden bench, exhausted as she fans her face to cool and chase away the flying insects.
The church bell locates the view from an ancient place in ruins
now a tourist destination. Green grass and luscious foliage and high expectation.
I think whats here is expectation, lamentation, and thoughts like incense, rise above the trees and life's benediction stalls.
The salads with fresh bread, the miniature dougnuts, the sipping of the lemonade, the sounding cheer and urging of the footballers bringing the world cup to Glendalough, as each a team celebrity.
Mystic mountain always spurs imagination like a decalogue. Resting after climbs exhaustion, conversational memory.
A picnic at Glendalough, winding, wandering, all around, as memory recalls, around this minor Eucharistic table the blessings of a life,
like a supper at a local Emmaus.