Friday, April 07, 2006

Spring Comes at Long Last!

Spring at last?

Jagged edges,
Splintered glass,
Twisted metal,
Shape of shapelessness –
And yet he looks
For patterns all the time
To give him comfort.

Raindrops beating glass
In an attic room
Brings him back
To some still space
Where no time is
And all he hears
Are Beckett words
In a theatre of the mind

Where words blow
Like withered leaves
Down long forgotten
Overgrown tracks –
And yet, he knows
The trees are strangely
Sprouting buds.
It must be spring
At last…

And then he thinks
That once there was
A word before words
Before the world began –
An ancient myth
That brought some comfort
To a parched and starved land –
That was the beginning surely
Of all our woes –

He is a priest without a flock,
Without a religion,
Without a God,
Left with the ancient ritual of tears
To water his starved soul.
Outside the daffodils are blooming -
It is the poet’s cruellest month –
April of the frosts and showers
And muck and mess
And mix of death-in-life
And life-in-death –
It must be spring
At last!

The picture I have inserted above is of what we Dubliners call "The Pope's Cross", Phoenix Park, Dublin. I took this photo three years ago.

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