Where the faeries live
‘neath many the odd-looking stone
be they not stones at all
but shape-shifted swans that longed
for a sedentary existence.
Of feint gypsies
I’d fain meet
there in the green sea-kettle marshes
where croaking brown-coat frogs
bestride busy-fiddlin' pub craickers
by skirt-wearing lacross-playing lads
down at the County Down -
Till the bare juts of cliffs
Where folly-spray waves terminate
the mist rises like incense
the air aghast with the spectacle below
where sweet Eire ends and the sea begins
a scandal for sea and land alike
the mutual breakage of continuity
lay there the craved border
where ships were let go to where they will
for monks, green martyrs
to lands near or distant.
How foreign it feels to me still!
waited on by the brogue-ish dark-haired waitress
how foreign compared to our grocery
the long tired walk to the Milk
in the service of merchandising
that I might buy something else on my journey..
the haggard looking cashier,
seemingly bored and boring
ahh, to see Christ in her or me!