At the end of time I will rise
like today, go about my business,
talk to children, smile sometimes.

The sky – the real sky – shall shelter
and storm the earth still.
black soil shall breed many satans still

Azure clouds, from which no rain falls,
thall mass on far-horizons threateningly.
large drops of rain freeze into ice,

Angels lie about their whereabouts
clerics, streaked with tallow, mumble incantations.
Here, the blossom-trees of stormy autumn shine
into full, glassy pools, grain tumbles from our mouths,

Mornings sing slumber again to wakened men
fish scatter ripples of wet delight, shimmering
swans couple, a dog-fox tracks its droppings:
in the park, dodging the broken syringes,
on broken swings we play. All day.

The sky – the real sky –
shelters and storms still.
we sit and talk in the twilight.

“Who made God, Dad?” Just like that.
answer the question please!

The trees sway, leaves tumble down, the town lights are on.
1992: the ghosts who buy memories tremble as
the tones of the big bell settle in the dust
of this small market town in County Meath.

 

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