I
And that was the summer flowers
Came and gone
The pink patterned petals, fallen at long last
Who did Christen the soft and the soil and the muck and the dirt
On which white frost now could settle for the coming tunnel days
And still I haven't quite yet made up my mind
Torn between the two or three flickers
Of dim candle
shined on walls in cold catacombs
This is but the ideal of worlds
II
Along Grotty streets of Dublin
Once did I ponder down
That time I brought you down to Smithfield
To fix the broken bicycle tyre
Up of lanes and smoke in air
Where ancients once did stroll
Along about the cobblestone towns
And the general cry from merchant carts
On these same streets did not Pearse declare his oath?
To Men who shall give their blood for Ireland's last remaining somber notes of song
Well now romantic Ireland's truly dead and gone
The wakes been hundred years now passed
And alone in one smoke filled alley I did stop in the cold to think things over
III
Thoughts they did come during December
On that morning of your funeral
that was I there in my black coat, red scarf and against myself
such morbid spirits for the season
I did sit at that last wooden bench Father whispered of Himself our lord
Took I to bread and wine
And Peaked inside your Coffin
Only then have I truly felt grief
Such a friendly Barman from McBrides
Who joined me in a well deserved pint that afternoon
Full of pure ***** was he
Perhaps thrown off by my pale skin and red eyes
said to sail away to Asia
Said it was the best thing for to do
As Buddhist Monks on high up hills did know a think or two
But I would not walk such mountains tops to get you off my mind
All I needed was a little time
that would clear it all away
IV
And I awayed to look for peace
Across sea and land
To the hustle and bustle
Of a snow logged London
And that once more was I
At the districts tall and to Oxford street
Where tender never seemed so sweet
You and I had not been here
For penny drops fell without my say so
Slipping into grates
where no man would dare to fish for even the leanest of supper
And went I to a darkened flat
to give up for another night
The gruffest of London would put
even New York city to shame
And with Face clean and new again
researching merry streets
I watched as Steam did rise
from chimney pots up on high red roofs
And Wishing such dark troubles would too flow away
I did peer down at my silver watch
Scratched face and sixth punch
And after a famous sigh
Wandered on to dock
V
Did not once you stop and think about the minute hand?
The slow and dropping sigh
or groan of the past
I certainly did
As shy as clockwork you were
perhaps love was not your game
Or was it was just me that turned you away?
And that was winter
Thoughts gone
thoughts passed
Then I couldn't even see the edges of everything that was wrong
Until I stopped to think
VI
And that was the bright light
a dark December night
And me burst with hell flames
Grabbed my grey jumper with one hand
taken outside to drive
I just needed some time to get things off my mind
And if I did not fall
one bump one slide
As sweet time stood on head
If only I could have died in that moment
But that was you gone
No more lessons or sighs
No more slow afternoons
Just a handful of years for me
To be alone in December
And for all our great restless wanderings
There is nothing more to give
That was the end
And if I was not me
I would journey on
In my own imperfect death
A poem in six parts.
Experimental. Don't know if anyone will like this at all, but I enjoyed writing it.