The Yellowmen Poem by Martin Moore

THE YELLOWMEN

The frothy fingers of the wild Atlantic
With sodden, unfamiliar touch
Grip the wet rocks of the Clare coastline
In a frantic, violent dance
Unwilling partners in a dateless drama
Played out this summer's evening
On a sun-drenched Kilcloher bay.
Myriad rainbows are reflected
Between the spray and smoothened stage.
In the gallery, a crescent shaped memorial
Nine small, grey headstones
Echo a lonely requiem in the wind.
Absent word or sentiment
A dirge for forgotten dead
Victims of this barren headland
Strangers to Loop head.
No eulogies, no epitaphs, no names
Nine nameless markers for nameless men
Interred by a bridge on the bend of a road.
No shelter yet from unforgiving sea
The coastal wind, a sad refrain
A melancholy lament.
The vast ocean eyes
Cry salt tears on their memory.
To spend eternity thus condemned
One soul shy of ten
Lie homesick and unknown
In the grave of the yellow men.