Cliona By The Shore
I let myself in
with the key of the kings and
wrapped red ribbons
around my poor head.
‘I thought you were dead’ said
I fired up at this and she waved me aside
‘I merely remark’ was her only reply
I heard on the news that the Temple had
I am aghast at their simple faith
And men search their words
For slivers of meanings
shards and remnants
of a truth they will hate
‘you came home too late’, says my mother
The debt I repaid is burning a hole in my pocket
For the cruelty of martyrs is mercy.
The wet grass smelt sweetly
Giving me courage
I willfully left there
and drove to the ocean
but none of the fishermen
put out to sea.
‘Are you leaving me? ’ asks my mother
I smiled in return and released her to fade.
For I am the prophet of beauty decayed.
We dwell by the shore now
And bless the white thimble
The rue grows around us
like weeds on a grave and the favour still warms us
in cottage or cave
‘We’ll save the world later’, my wise mother says.