Mistake Poem by Thomas P White

[i]

I have a gripe with this land
What has it ever done for me?
Other than incessantly siphon
Its rustles though each gap and gate.
Am I supposed to laud it?
For its most gentle lie,
Where daily, each narrow laneway
Is poked along like a child
From one hollow to another.

Yes, but how can I
When aware that every passing year
Forces me to step in line
Further with its undulations.
Is it possible I mean no more to it?
Than the simple cow or calf
And have become like them,
Penned to its endless fertility
For my daily fodder, for keeps.


[ii]


Now more and more each day
I prefer indoors to mope around
Removed from the noisy slurp
Of mud in gaps; the twitter of birds
Upending rotten leaves. I focus
On the most mundane thing of all
A bleak papered wall, seeing myself
In every design it throws my way.
Outside, the wind rustles on

Unhindered by my lean physique.
Far off, cold hills attract
Grey cloud, as if to wet themselves
For slipping easier into night.
Slowly but surely darkness clings
To everything that cries or moans
Partially erasing my big mistake
Of being intimidated by horizons
That daily told me to stay put.




(First published in New Writing,
Irish Press circa 1983)