Cainneach Rua

They called me Poor John

I came here long ago
And lived among the streets
...

I've sat here all day
And nobody has knocked on the door
Do they think of me at all?
Or even know that I am here?
...

In the morning as the sun rises
I will sneak away and
Run towards the horizon
And keep running
...

They buried her
Crouched
In a shallow cist
Her flowing crimson hair
...

Pegasus's square lights my eyes
His shape familiar to
Dulled irises
A father's warm hand guides my vision
...

In a restaurant she approached me, proudly shows me her new toy, a little green tractor with yellow stripes. I see the sheer happiness in her eyes lit up like a city street. Her giant smile lifting the whole world with its corners. Now no longer a child but a knowledgeable farmer of fifty years old she drives her John Deere through lush fields of carpet, bringing hay to cattle and silage to sheep. Charmed I look on from a distance as she plays across the floor. Absorbed. A little girl so happy and un-phased by worldly things. I envy her. Oh to escape from cold-hard reality! Like a child pushes her toy tractor, the world pushes one along a path of stress and worry, our rubbery tyres becoming worn-out bringing hay to our cattle and sheep. Seeing her I realise it is not so much a condition as it is a gift. Perhaps we are in fact the unlucky ones, the ones to be pitied. Her mother pays the bill and they leave. The sky is grey outside. Through the window I see life creep along an unhappy city street.
...

I hang on a cross. You hang on a bed.
I endure for three hours.
You endure at 3 am.
I thirst. You hunger for
...

Disfigured and
Deformed was he
The little big man
Aged beyond his years
...