Saturday, March 04, 2017

That Is No County For Aarghl Demmuns

Doctor Ed Watson, too much time counting
Sheep and always laughing on his feet

when they come now look alive Her
joyous loving prayerful light don't need no

gunnas or wannabes all our needs wear She
in a string of mouth words truth aim arched

arrow and briefly drawn lines strung
in the heart and a living head cut off sent

to Elizabeth I, spiked on London Bridge,
the body dumped beneath an oak, the final

FitzGerald killed by a kern O'Kelly
mercenary for coign from a Clan Moriarty

Castledrum. No churchyard here FitzGerald
sings, buried where our  forebears are, no

single cross nor standing stone all we who
living die in love & Glenagenty somewhere

near, not with the horseman that pass us by,
but from  a loving arc all cheer bejewled

the spirit speaking us in no lapidary phrase
no marble script
we can't be sure of the exact spot,

only twice a year the grass is cut.

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