The Longest Struggle
In life,
wrapped in pink bubble-wrap and hardship.
Wearing the marks of child-rearing
from fairly young age.
In the twilight years,
two drinks on a table,
could barely.
Murders of crows falling back into unison.
Broken bottles in fields and tin-cans,
crowds coming out of local schools
in the driving rain.
Grandmothers, old and young,
four children in tow.
Pushing prams into icy rain,
the enslavement to and of history,
human capital,
every part for sale,
in bad deals.
Pressing the pram,
by an unforgiving biting rain,
blind conformity,
to other side of meaning.
Gravities
The events Undulating
of the peaks and troughs of life,
getting back up for your selfhood.
Rooms for rent,
four floors higher,
curtains torn down,
worn bricks.
Present memories of darkest Dublin,
humans not thinking of themselves as human,
horned,
sedation on a large scale.
The accelerating speed of the turn in the eye of
the public eye.
The kiss of death for the living?
Who knows, who knows, who,
for better or worse.
At rush hour, behind the JCB funeral.
Knotweed, speed, knocked signposts over,
roots showing, rows of green laurels,
pulling the devil by the tail.
Building bridges over well-trodden ground.
Ambulance sirens audible over church bells
and the flow of the local river,
in the falling rain.
The Morning Burial
They stood quietly in the cold,
sombre in the bright sunlight.
Beads wrapped around cold bluish hands,
pensively clasped together, heads bowed.
The grey lean face
appeared unfazed of the funeral director,
a sense of strained routine about the occasion.
An elderly man was overheard telling his brothers,
“For the chop, we’re next”.
in the distance stood two tall men of strong building
glistening with sunlight,
their shovels on the sharp edges .
Whillst prayers were said and tears expressed,
the coffin was lowered into the ground forever,
to the sound of ropes
burning against the laminate wooden edges.
The Parish Priest poured Clay was thrown into the coffin
And many flowers, followed
initiated by the youngest present as expected.
A group among the crowd recited additional prayers
before the director covered the opening
with a panel of artificial grass,
as the mourners placed flowers and tributes.
Temporary closure for the entourage,
the two men were in the distance, when the cortege left,
prepared to make their approach.
About the Poet: