My Abbeyshrule

Where Inny sneaks past sentry arch

February's breath puts life in March,

And silver birch looks down on larch

By Abbeyshrule.

Where simple people cross the bridge

to set a drill or Champion ridge,

the well stocked pantry is the fridge

in Abbeyshrule.

Royal Canal and graveyard full

murder of crows, one herring gull,

Repeated gossip never dull

at Abbeyshrule.

The peat is deep in Askey bog,

Twin green shades of grass and frog

Man's thirst is quenched by rustic grog,

near Abbeyshrule.

Where bell sticks out it's tongue at noon

Sign of the Cross, Angelus tune,

Maple dressed in light maroon

round Abbeyshrule.

Where hope and friendship never die,

Our tent a bright Cerulean sky,

A glorious jigsaw from on high,

My Abbeyshrule.

( Dedicated to Seamus MacAogain 'El Peregrino' master scribe )

The Maid in Waiting

I saw her standing at the gate,

She of slender solemn face,

The shoe-horn hollow of her throat

Modigliani model out of place.

Alone she stood beside that gate

Waiting for what, a lover late?

Sentry gaze searching far,

Slim fingers coiled on topmost bar.

She wore an oatmeal dress of stuff

Not shop bought, made by hand,

A brown plaid shawl on shoulders thrown

A maiden of the land?

Freckles dotted nose and cheek,

Frozen lashes long and sleek,

Bosom slight yet shyly proud,

Profile framed by fleecy cloud.

And once or twice she seemed to sigh

As if resigned to God knows what,

Yet still immobile she remained

Reminder of the wife of Lot.

I watched her for what seemed an age

Still she never changed the page,

Quick heel and she deserted me

Left with no choice but to be.

Reparation

I've done a lot of sinning in my time

both home and away,

now it's time to pay;

to whitewash stains with penitential lime.

Some beat their breasts with clenched claws,

others fast and pray,

this is not my way,

I prefer the Camino of plod and pause.

Like Padraic Colum's 'old woman of the roads'

I meander quietly in lanes

exercising varicose veins

hauling hempen sacks full of discard loads.

For my sins I walk many miles by day

Picking up litter and dirt

sharing a common hurt

with all things rejected and thrown away.

I wipe plastic bottles from the face of the grass

beer cans and cardboard

soft toys once adored

daily mirrors, daily mails, brown and white broken glass.

Like Frost I take the roads less traveled

remote trails and paths,

rusty pails and baths

I haul to roads with surface graveled.

Today in a farmer's feeding bag I found a little lamb

still warm but dead

the plastic red

and pondered the memory of the little ones mam.

Was there grief for the life finished at the start

no gambol or bounce,

no flurry or flounce,

just the basin of a drain to house a silent heart.

Everyday a pilgrimage of recovering the dead

and useless forgotten sins

without the benefit of bins

or the dark restful sanctuary of a garden shed.

Sea of penance never ending debt of compensation

for wayward ways

and wicked days,

an endless trek in search of reparation.

This and That

Happiness has limits,

Suffering has none

Darkness can blind

as can the sun.

Truth can be bitter

lies often sweet,

Victory's sibling;

Undervalued defeat.

Sometimes neglect

is safer than care,

Foul can be handled

better than fair.

Plumage is flattery

so is a kiss,

Lowly the cat

at chimney-top piss.

Nose and eyes

look down on mouth,

North wind is bitter,

deadly the south.

A hearth has two sides

fire between,

ripe black banana

better than green?

With duck quill in hand

where writes the sage

Is the verse better

in margin or page?

Freedom is complex

slavery plain,

where is the healer

without pain?

Futures left lying

in old men's wills,

Life is a trial,

Death cures all ills.

The Shrew who knew.

I met an old lady in the forest today,

A weathered tarmagent shrew,

She bound me in the noose of chat

and told me all she knew.

She said “clipping hair is a waste of time

it always grows back again

despite the fact that it's dead,

and died free from pain.

People are like childhood diseases,

endure them and quickly pass on

by the greedy and well dressed, they're vulgar,

ignore them, they'll soon be gone.

The practise of hardship

is the one true religion,

Reason has no life of it's own,

the back stroke of revenge swims everywhere,

thought and tongue rarely agree,

you must trust yourself alone.

Colourful and useless as a cage of canaries

are the colons and commas of the mind,

a morsel of ground, a handful of grains,

are more than enough to bind.

Condemn the parson, poverty,

never neglect the poor,

care for the sick and the maimed,

banish disease from your door.

Fence only with words, sing with the birds,

make friends with bramble and tree,

pray direct to your maker

to guide all your dreams

and set all your losses free.

There is no evil in the bag of sin

where is the law for mute swans?

the clay is your mother and father

only earth can loosen your bonds.”

“I'm off now” she said, “I have further to go,

and must gather fresh herbs for my tea,

think of me now and then, and if you have time

say a prayer for yourself and for me”.