Sean Godley

Rookie (17/11/1981 / Cavan, Republic of Ireland)

Violet Flowers - Poem by Sean Godley

people put on black Expressions blank
and grave nods meet sure sober frowns no one
escapes The Butcher’s cleave lays at the meat
The Baker’s dough is rough and hard The Butcher
holds the Baker’s baby As the Baker
makes a speech they mourn inside not every one
holds in the tears from some they make
a single roll a drip to glacier

they stream strive like a river like a dream
back home they go alone and All but one
And life rolls on The Butcher cleaves the meat
The Baker kneads the dough The babies cry
The people meet In lively streets And laugh
and smile and talk a while within unspoken
memories the funeral plays again

Another drip rolls from the ice the people
wash those clothes had lain ignored For months
as life rolled on. they congregate Whey face
and dye dead eyes sheep’s head On butcher’s slab,
In empty shop Where clock still ticks And door’s
Unlocked till now they are together again
Together in the rain don Different speech
dig different men old Older but the same
Grey takes the sides of some some Death did mark
them As some scolded children laughed yet Still
the hymns are sung as All the people hold the tongue
As the next is lowered down and down
entombed renown. They make their single ways
From Churchyard gates Into new days fresh Fresh
again And life Rolls on Like those last hills,
And life goes on The drinks The cries The work
The meat The bread We eat Think of the dead
And how We come together Time to time
In uniform To mourn to pick our violet flowers
That soon rot Into that ground Maybe

After death has marked me with his silver
Brush and maybe maybe After my life’s
work is done My life’s half drink is drunk
My babies cried to people And they cleave
the meat And knead the dough And listen to
the babies though well In their heart of hearts
they know Soon they will be the marked Soon they
will be the one For whom the silence takes
the day For whom the workers leave their work
For whom the lovers lay asleep For whom
the dripping seems to stop Although those drops
They never cease And, although forgotten,
forge A river that erodes a gorge
Before it’s taken back by death And swallowed
in one breath

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Poem Edited: Tuesday, April 18, 2006

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