Bernard Kennedy (20 May 1956 / dublin)

The evening comes down lately in May,
the church bell from the tower rings,
the train rattles through the lanes
of Dublin housing hedgerows.
The grounds are tidy, flagpoles white,
the fuschia flowers again,
the priestly Sunday job is done
the eremitical seal.

Then the staircase,
duvet dream,
and visit from remembering
and wish.
the morning bell like lauds again,
awake the slumbering souls.
And yawn for like a triduum comes
the routine rush and stale staccato.
of novena repetition.

The graveside down the road is full,
the coffins bakers dozen,
the wedding bells are ringing out,
the child his chrism head
is done,
the money bagged and
village shrived.

Many the parson, manse and bell
is quiet in this age.
The football brats from College school
kick up against the wall the ball,
and deep within,
in silent meditation,
beads the soulful wanting heir.

And onwards towards another dawn,
centenary bell rings out.
The shriven shrived,
the canon fired,
and day is done,
amid the purple fuschia bells.