Eamon Ceannt Park, A Cycle

Ingress

Her boot leathers are wet, grass­greened.

Things have gone aground at the grove,only the fairy­ring stands in her circleof spectral gowns,

her parasols all caught up in a breeze of light.

Her wood­clattery heels soundagainst the stones at the gate.Against a cluster of coppered leaves;

their outsoundings , a filigree.

Inscription

The park is scattered as after a storm.The destruction is knave­wrought.

A crescent moon is inscribed into the soilby 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.

Stasis

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.

It's stick­strewn.

A cold sun rises above the minaretsat 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 facedriving her into estatic groves.

The only thing seeming alive in this desolate placeIs the Queen's Rook.

He stalks above her veiled head,his call drowning in his throat.

She heard a name.

Egress

She looks back to the stoneFrom thence to the furrowed hill,It is of ordinary green.A rook is atop the gate.

She no longer sees the far awaylit by careeling crows.

The path is different by day.

Coda

It is dark beneath the tree.

And,

The rising sun has not yet caughtthe edge of the stone.

And,

A clutter of dry debris, a black featheris housed there.

And,She would sing him if only he let her.

And,

"Intreat me not to leave theeNor to return from following after theeFor whither thou goes I will go .."

she leaves.

Chaplet

A conversation amongst trees

I cannot hear what they are saying, that young girland 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.

Out.

Bower

And I am become aware that it is time for this to cease,

A mead of daisies whiten on the windward sideof a grove. Trees,daisies are blown white beneath silver beech.

Those hues balancefor once.And,

and If I step at once from the shelter of this close bower,Will it hold ?

Fall

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 flamein the limestonethe purple, the yellow,the loose­strife.Devil's bread grows on this land.

The Beach

Dragged impasto of seaweedaches against silver waves.

I watch the wormholesferry their glitter of sandin kaleidoscopes.

Tree­Wheel

In the rain its knuckled barkhas the gloss of polish,

a bottle­green patina.There isn't a skull­head for pivot,tension is held in back of its palmit fists into the soil,

raising it up.

The Little Shelves

Your willow­bound pentacle restsin 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 sillwhere your hand laid,

Clawing

You tensed it as you showed me the men outside.