Dawn At Corrib
The morning's mist rose low, sallow beneath
blinkered waves sheeted grey, bits of dapple
sun beam, fighting of kick and shove to
touch first the greenery blades.
The air tasted of sugar jars, blessed grains
still taking on a nightshade's character,
the sweetened wine of 11 o'clock, half-past
bedding hours of the reasoned.
The paths were winding, stone's throw to water,
companions of ancient kings, their names
pinned to city council clapboard, some kind of
dirty trudging through uneven pebble.
Echoes of dressed men's dead tongues,
carried on the river bans, shelves of
worn stone in four-four time's march
back to the open ocean.
The fleeting feeling was mutual,
that sense of lonesome wound nursing, paper-tack
walls of four euro wine and bloodied aloof,
little more than the always thing,
ever-present the same pacing cornered room.
The clumsy invitations to teas and coffees,
hand stitched to mouth in beggar's fashion,
were less than printed paper in worth,
more than golden chalice in appearance,
offered to lip in known refusal.
The open window, lacking in curtain light,
wasn't something to choose all for the time:
it didn't take, waiting for loving faces
like two whistlestop trains, crossed, never
heard the sound again.