Aon.
Do.
Trí.

Men swarming brown mists shape the harvest bells
Fumbling down Grafton, the reek of October.
And shallow, trickling crowds in vain or ugly swells
Grin or smile politely ‘til movement past is over.

Cathair.
Cuig.
Sé.

A greying lab lies listless on the linoleum floor;
Like silver ivy, the frost caress,
Breathing crystal on all the windows and doors.
A figure, slumped, lies dead at the desk.

Seacht.
Ocht.
Naoí.
Deích.

And the lord knows dear saint, for I am your ink-dried mortal son,
Shuffling in riots, sexless, for a Tuesday routine,
That no more shall be spoke skyward after this novena:
I have lain down too long waiting for an apparition.

16.11.09