The crows with their barbed- wire cackle around the belfry.
How could she think of that;
In summertime it might not be so bad
With the hectoring crows raucous in the belfry
In the distance a car changing gear over the bog road.
I hear its groaning
Across the fields of battle ;
where the Jacobites fell in sixteen ninety one
And now the pale grass yielding to insipid yellow .
I was powerless to stop
the wretched pendulum of time;
with its gnawing exactitude.
Across the abbey field , with a blue-rimmed pail
The gate whines and clashes and the buckets
Now I seeThat dark deepness there ;
in the reed pool ;
Deeper than my dreams of that or any other time
The village hairdresser was a merry lady
who dressed up and went to dances
With much local disaproval
in Ballinasloe on Sunday nights ;
And dyed the hair of every woman blue ,
In her revenge on Monday morning.
Just to make sure it was still there,
And there would be no one there
Only but the gravediggers
Looking for the keys of the Abbey.
No perch to catch in the reedy pool ;
And I could no more stop any of this than I could the
Swinging in tawny hands
Coming from the well.
A cloud of darkest chill came down upon me
In the loamy bed and l felt
all the perfidity of god
spill down upon me.
so soon turn a leaden death .
And I realised that circuses were for children
And for fools and : what would be would be
However I thought or how ever hard I prayed
© Copyright 2016 donkylemore. All rights reserved.
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