Eamon Ceannt Park, A Cycle
Her boot leathers are wet, grassgreened.
Things have gone aground at the grove,
only the fairyring stands in her circle
of spectral gowns,
her parasols all caught up in a breeze of light.
Her woodclattery heels sound
against the stones at the gate.
Against a cluster of coppered leaves;
their outsoundings , a filigree.
The park is scattered as after a storm.
The destruction is knavewrought.
A crescent moon is inscribed into the soil
by the small grove,
a willow weeps by its exit.
And the sky is close as goose down.
The geese screel and beat overhead,
someone has sprayed yellow paint on his memorial stone.
There is a man in the stone
The dew is playing fire at her feet,
wetting her legs.
A legion of rooks guard his stone.
The route through the groves is frozen today;
even the treetops are caught in ash.
There is no mistaking this scene for a balletic stasis.
A cold sun rises above the minarets
at park's edge.
And the sound of bells emanates from behind somewhere .
She is glad to leave,
glad to kick the ice from her feet against the stones.
The Queen's Rook
And what if she entered that garden wearing her last veil?
The others being ripped by fierce wind and claw.
The willows lash her face
driving her into estatic groves.
The only thing seeming alive in this desolate place
Is the Queen's Rook.
He stalks above her veiled head,
his call drowning in his throat.
She heard a name.
She looks back to the stone
From thence to the furrowed hill,
It is of ordinary green.
A rook is atop the gate.
She no longer sees the far away
lit by careeling crows.
The path is different by day.
It is dark beneath the tree.
The rising sun has not yet caught
the edge of the stone.
A clutter of dry debris, a black feather
is housed there.
She would sing him if only he let her.
"Intreat me not to leave thee
Nor to return from following after thee
For whither thou goes I will go .."
A conversation amongst trees
I cannot hear what they are saying, that young girl
and the tree. Their whispers are intimate , ceaseless.
I am sunk into a conifer hedge, tamped into a wall,
threaded into the blue ivy.
This is a warm chaplet against the rain,
And I would lie here if it wasn’t for the sky
the sky will not skew to my vision,
body conspires with greenleaf to thrust me forward.
And I am become aware that it is time for this to cease,
A mead of daisies whiten on the windward side
of a grove. Trees,
daisies are blown white beneath silver beech.
Those hues balance
and If I step at once from the shelter of this close bower,
Will it hold ?
Hildegard of Bingen
I step gingerly over the place where you begged for your death,
remembering how sore my hand was
and thinking it then a rehearsal for the real.
I was not to be there, when it came.
My comfort is in your chairs,
the one in the little study of tired books.
The one which looked out onto morning and evening star.
I watch the limestone outcrop,
I watch the flame
in the limestone
the purple, the yellow,
Devil's bread grows on this land.
Dragged impasto of seaweed
aches against silver waves.
I watch the wormholes
ferry their glitter of sand
In the rain its knuckled bark
has the gloss of polish,
a bottlegreen patina.
There isn't a skullhead for pivot,
tension is held in back of its palm
it fists into the soil,
raising it up.
The Little Shelves
Your willowbound pentacle rests
in the small shelves, the not forshow shelves.
Books on music, astrology, maths,
their covers cracked.
Your pentacle was unhooked after your death.
its gone from its place on the wall.
Answering as it did a seed tied into string,
that someone brought to hang from the curtain rail.
I found your tattered ephemeris,
A Vision, by Yeats.
A lavender swatch dries down on the wooden sill
where your hand laid,
You tensed it as you showed me the men outside.