Seventh Son Poem by Francie Lynch

The cock on the steeple
Proclaimed and denied to four corners, and
Looked down and twisted.
Old men in green suits with crow's eyes and
Alabaster covered bones pushed open doors
With wooden feet.
The postman with empty knees rode his Deere
Over green fields with rabbits,
And laughed by himself.

Rentals in drives plan the day's outings.

Shops carry faded names:
Donovan, O'Sullivan, Finnegan.
Beneath, The Holy Cross is a retirement home, and
Palms plaint skyward with the wind.

Five hundred leave each week:

'Ireland's best... so fresh it's famous.'

The laggers serve tea and scones,
Or ply in shops they many one day own.
There are no slow boats here:
The green suits leave naturally,
Others by air.
This is no country for the young who
Have hillside tilting windpower mills.

Below, a young woman eats, holding
Her knife like a primary pencil, like her
Father, eating silently, staring.
Crow and rabbit inhabit, and
Stones tumble and lay still for a hundred years.

Each day a new apocalypse with one opening.
No wrappings, no ointments, no fresh wafer.
No throne to approach, no voice calling them home.
No seventh son to dip his finger in the well
And soothe.