Time is teasing along with lush earth so pleasing,
The minutes of our youth are spent in toiled days
And sands are blowing the weld of our sold means,
Foundations of dust, the cries unheard, of the aged.

And then, as dream, you came from the starry skies
Blue and small as the ocean dot, forever fixed—
Reigning over the frozen, revolving moon that lies,
Dimly wakes in your fabled orbit, my fated ellipse.

Now, time tables and splits, renders me to eaves
Undone, my squandered youth was but a sad play
And I am clocked with wind, the geld of my dreams,
Had shiftless hands been more solid than my days.

Before we parted, on Shanganagh cliffs—
And crashed in sweet Éire, without word, all views
And burned down in the sun by a california rift,
We gleamed like new falcons in a wood-view mews.

I stack the round stones
From the river, my sculpture grows—
Crow will knock it down.

Born of fire, your body burned under mine.
The slip shod friction kindled in the bliss.
Blue flames flashing and water dowsing time,
Smoke, my wave, moon seas, lighted sands kiss.
Blue and cold my eyes set, seizing treasure,
Your flaming hair a bed, my boat was wrecked.
A sea of glass and all the stars were measured;
Red on white, your skin was cinder flecked.
Flames were raining, **** the waters break;
Two bodies burned that night, fire on the lake.

.
I have known the stifling silence of all—
The world's cruel turning, the teasing dawn,
Breaking with fainting days, blinking out
Their dashing hopes, so much for rugs,

Pulled out.  I will not miss the slipping shade
That buried my name in Pharos fallow tomb,
Nor will I lament the times passing, raging,
Spectacle, the fallen masque of my fame.

I shall welcome the majesty of the ******
Loam, the honour of being the daisies mantle
The goodly fortune to sleep under the golden
Stars who birthed my dream of grace and light.

Once upon a time
in a nasty little war
Cromwell came to Ireland
like a blight upon our shore.

He waged war upon my people
in a genocidal style
but some revisionists might argue
he was merciful and mild.

At Drogheda he killed thousands,
what a slaughter that place saw,
at the hands of "Christian" soldiers-
surely righteous was their cause.

Then, when the war was over
and all our blood was spent
the Gaels, who used to own the land,
all wound up paying rent

" To Hell or Connacht" is a phrase
sound biters did invent
I don't know if he uttered it
but its surely what he meant!

Rising guano smokes the white birds.
The North winds homing, ave, a long
Besieging sea and ferries the prince
Of waves pass pacific and the fair isles.
With javelin eyes, aloft, blue streaks

The seething air, headlands draft
Grave embattlements, red rivulets
Paint on the raining wing, black art
Ticks the tern, marked minions and more
Dread.  Once you were a foundling

Dropped from sovereign doons, scree
Of sky, air of wizard, your image late
Spikes from the lake, taut talons train,
Your breast a speckled main, rapier
Of dreams, arisen, sheathed in stone.

In the frosts of autumn, leaves do tell
In storied colours, yellow and red,
Round the shores your kingdoms table,
Battle cries break, a silence of wails,
Though they fall they shall burn again.

The ruddy footworn path is wild and long,
Tracing down all of my woodland years,
Shorter in front, longer behind, fading song,
Was its form cut by me or the grazing deer?

A tin cat plays guitar on the fires mantle,
The Eiffel tower is knitted to the wall
And trade paper books are loosely strewn,
Dropped about the french coffee table.
The poet, pearling with snowcapped eyes,
Filtering words on ivory keys he knows
The burled wood piano is not yet playing.

In the house of the unsaid
Tears are glass beads that drop
The ***** on the bone china

Blood spittles the lips, hair
Raises the dead the cut
Rosary roils and dents

Harmony’s rumour spouts
In the sink. The clock’s twitching
Strikes a mongoosed hour.

And the scattered stations run
The rude wood splinters
As the unsaying are floored

Clouded eyes pain the glass
Outside the house, bare
Trees are leaved with ravens.

I went down to Monmouth fair
a sword and pistol to buy there
I thought to go a'soldiering
for the gold and glory it would bring

I saw a Maiden dark and sweet
a Raven played around her feet
a gleaming pistol she did hold
of fine rosewood and chased with gold

"Wear this pistol at your side
a spirit dwells here deep inside
half your silver this will buy
it's bark will be your battle-cry"

I proudly set it in my belt
the comfort of it keenly felt
then set to search for a sharp blade
then I espied the Raven and the Maid

A yard of steel was in her hands
ancient and blue from spirit-lands
graven runes were on the side
and I sang fell songs as I swung it wide

Alone now silver spent at last
I headed homeward tired and fast
but standing there amongst a crowd
the Maiden crying out aloud

"Who will save my Raven fair
and set him free into the air
these men have taken him to ****
they torture him my heart is chilled"

A group of drunken soldier's swayed
and with the girl's dear pet they played
their evil mouths called curses dire
as they pushed the bird towards the fire

"What cost it's life?" I called out loud
those preening King's-Men vain and proud
"A bag of silver" they replied
"Or those fine weaons at your side"

Moved by pity for the crying child
the captured bird that should fly wild
I gave the weapons with a curse
though they cost me deeply in the purse

The bird we tended all the night
come day it was returned to flight
it gazed deeply into my eyes
then soared up strong to freedom skies

So to the battles I did go
my heart for glory all aglow
but all that I did learn from war
a soldier's life is cheap and poor

Twenty years of war and strife
I lie here clinging to my life
a sword cut deep  into my chest
a great bird lights upon my breast

A raven old still strong and ****
gazing at my wounds so raw
recognition in it's eyes
this King of woeful battle's skies

"I well recall your sacrifice
the pistol fair and battle knife
so now I will repay to you
My debts I pay my heart is true"

"No crow or bird will feast this day
the wolves that slink I'll drive away
To watch and guard you till you die
and see your spirit soar on high"

"And when  your body they do lay
beneath the soil of this spring day
I'll mourn forevermore the loss
and watch your grave from yew and cross"

And now that place is swathed in green
A Lady fair there can be seen
Her ancient raven  watches still
that lonely graveside on the hill.

That night was cold,
The wind was biting.
All over Ireland
the snow was falling

“I was packing
my trousseau,
To Dublin town
I was to go.”
“I heard a pebble
strike my pane.
A moment passed,
then, there, again.”
“I looked out
On the snow filled lane.
That’s when I saw him,
Saw my Michael.
His pale face raised
toward my light.
Like an angel
lost in contemplation.”
“Michael’s health was not the best.
His lungs were weak
and fluid filled.”
“Soon after I had left the West,
I heard that he had fallen ill.”
“He’s buried now near Sligo town,
between Ben Bulben and the sea.
Michael Furey's soul is free,
You know, I think he died for me.”