Twitch! I think. <br />Twitch, I beg. <br />Stumbling over uneven ground <br />trying to feel with rods, <br />and see <br />without looking <br />and walk without falling face down <br />in a cow pat. <br /> <br />I am a source of unlimited <br />amusement <br />to the man who can dowse. <br />He was introduced in a flurry <br />of West Cork accents <br />and I am still not sure <br />if he is Pat, or Aloysius or Maurice <br />But he is one of these three <br />and his two brothers also watch <br />ancient sprites with gleeful malice <br />the Dublin bint in her dowsing infancy. <br /> <br />I am not getting anywhere. <br />My Mother can dowse without effort <br />my own hands are clumsy <br />they can feel the note in a cello string <br />but they are not open to the music <br />that is water or energy. <br />i feel the anger of failure <br />i am not a good loser. <br />I consider faking it <br />but something tells me they would not <br />be even slightly convinced. <br /> <br />I am not good at this. <br />I listen humbly while Pat <br />or Maurice or Aloysius <br />tells me to relax, to practice <br />to hold, to loosen, to be more aware <br />to be less self conscious. <br />I vow to go home and walk <br />the length and breadth of the park <br />clutching these infernal rods <br />of course I don't- <br />they sit as I write <br />reproaching me from the sideboard. <br />I may be destined never to unlock <br />their elusive secrets.<br /><br />Geraldine Moorkens Byrne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dowsing/
