On hallowed ground,
Where the whitethorn meets the blackthorn,
a threshold through the spiritual veil.
When you are with nature you are with the earth,
walking through a living landscape
feeling the spirit of the country,
We change in the thin places
we connect in those liminal spaces.
The veil is thin at the borderlands.
at the forest edge,
light coming through the trees,
casting upon the sacred oak,
beside flowing river water,
over rocks and boulders,
by the sea as the waves meet the shore.
A connection with those
who were rooted to the same places in the past,
to the people of the mounds,
the hill of Uisneach,
Tara, Bru na Boinne,
Knocknarea, Carrowmore
Rathcroghan, the cave of cats,
into the womb of the world.
The soul of the Caileach embodied
in the hallowed places.
Magic is hiding in plain sight.
Spirits move from the outer and inner worlds.
The curtain is translucent
over the three days and nights of Samhain.
To be open and receptive,
to pull deep within the grove of trees,
Lost souls
Sitting alone at the bar in Kilburn,
mid-afternoon on a mid-Summers day
wearing a suit stained with blood,
sweat and booze,
drinking the last of this month’s rent.
He took the boat in 57’
leaving behind Mayo,
full of hope and fear,
an address in his pocket,
for a ganger and a start,
money for a week to tide him over,
Sunday best on his back,
new shoes squeezing his feet.
No Irish need apply,
lodgings hard found,
working every hour God sent,
paid in the crown at the weekend,
missing home, laughs to hide the pain,
another from the top shelf.
Saving for the summer holiday,
putting a little by,
back home for a week to the old sod,
buying pints for the lads,
bragging about the wages,
gold chains around the neck,
bought from a suitcase.
When did you get home?
When are you going back?
Back to back breaking in blighty,
years passing on,
body getting tired,
drink taking hold,
no money for the holidays,
or the funerals at home.
Nights in the doss house,
sleeping on the rope,
days on the streets,
dreams of a long-gone family,
passing away in the cold.
Thaddeus and Eleanor danced after the storm
Thaddeus
stood at his doorway observing
the
formation of an all-engulfing storm.
He was no
longer satisfied with silence
or
listening to the gentle sound of rain
tinkling
against his window,
lulling
him to sleep.
He wanted
new challenges,
new
tumults to ascend.
Thaddeus
awaited the scream of the wind,
above him
his eyes lifted
to the
stratus skyline,
the wind
surged forward and
endlessly
pounded like hammer blows
upon the
earth,
overhead
in darkening skies,
cadaverous
clouds streamed
in
abundant chaos.
Thaddeus
welcomed the storm;
in fact,
he embraced it and danced
within
its swirling torrents.
In a
previous life he battled it,
he
outstretched his arms and cursed it,
the storm
appeared never-ending to him,
it was
all consuming,
waiting
to devour him,
he was
pulled into the deluge and sank
into the
black depths of the dark water
as he
struggled to swim,
to stay
alive as the unremitting waves
battered
him,
to fight
against it appeared futile,
but he
learned to endure the lash,
the agony
of its rampant fury.
Thaddeus
learned how to stop fighting it;
the more
he resisted the further he sank,
Thaddeus
learned how to float.
His
saviour was Eleanor,
she
taught him how to ride the storm,
to ride
the crashing waves of the tempest,
she gave
him safe harbour
in the
volatile chaos that was his life before,
a shelter
from the swelling seas,
a
comforting light of hope
that
guided him home past jagged reefs
into the
arms of a nurturing cove,
her voice
was soothing to him,
her words
like the melody
of a
familiar song
he had
heard before
but
couldn’t quite remember where.
When the
storm was over
and the
carnage complete,
when the
corpses had been counted
and the
branch was on the bough,
Eleanor
took Thaddeus by the hand
as they
transcended light and shade,
they
ethereally floated,
spectres
on the shrill breeze
beyond
time and latitude,
With no
earthly constraints to hold them
to root
them to the ground,
they rose
together elegantly upwards to glide upon the heavenly currents.
When
Eleanor took Thaddeus by the hand,
they
danced after the storm.
The gloaming
Inside,
shadows silently slide
across the grey floor,
climb up the papered wall
and darken the window.
Outside,
the dusk hangs on the withered tree,
its limbs slashed, mutilated and torn.
Barbed wire twisted around its torso.
Piercing deep wounds into its old decaying bark.
Above,
a murder of crows swarm,
a dark dance against the dying evening light,
a chorus of their shrill harsh caw,
before reposing on high oak branches.
Beyond,
over the brown heathered hill,
the setting sun casts its colours,
an orange glow across the heavens,
then steals away to ascend again.
Kevin McManus is a poet-writer
from Leitrim in Western Ireland. He has published six novels, a collection of
short stories and two books of poetry. His latest poetry book called “The
Hawthorn Tree” is published by Lapwing Publications, Belfast. His poems
have been published in various journals including the Cormorant, the Madrigal,
the Honest Ulsterman and The Galway Review. He is currently compiling a new
poetry collection for publication later this year.
No comments:
Post a Comment