SEVEN SHORT SPINS
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1
Racehorses
Run the same
Breathless sprint
In that crusty dawn
As though the fields
Were full of roaring punters
Praying for their pound of flesh.
”””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””’
2
In neutral Belgium,
Now speckled with cemetries,
The war tourists came to watch
Live men dying in mud.
The peace tourists,
Hearts lost in green ground,
Come to name
Un-nameable ghosts.
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3
Arthur in Avalon,
Excalibur in the lake,
Merlin in the wind,
Ghosts in the fire,
Me in a cardboard box
Next to you in yours,
Growing to finger the sky.
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4
The state pathologist,
Dr John Harbison,
Goes from death to violent death,
His sanity carefully preserved in brine.
I listen to violence.
Trying not to hear
Dark names, darker things
And I cry, doing nobody any good.
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5
I can sit
Deep in the armchair
Cup of coffee
Just in the hand clasp
Shoes -here’s one
I kicked off earlier –
Jewellery bright scattered,
Hair all untied
And watch
The performance of yeast.
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6
The man
Who makes a tiara glow
In his silent workshop
Has gold flecks
In his hair
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7
In the last quarter
Of the last second
Of the last day
Of that year
There will still be
Tea in bed,
Merlot on the shelf,
Cheese sandwiches,
Seventeen Eighty,
Your voice in a rumble,
Your hands,
Your smile
Keeping me
All together.
Honor O Brolchain
14-2-2001