I was eleven when it happened.
Bartley the man of the house,
As  judge and jury,
Passed the sentence,
Condemning the mongrel.
Peter took him to the shore,
He licked his face.
Tail wagged with trust,
As he wrapped the bailing twine around his neck.

Carefully selecting two stones,
Amongst the many stones of Connemara.
He hitched them to the bailing twine,
Using a made up sacred knot,
To deliver death.

Lifting him in the cradle of his arms,
Which in time would hold his son.
At the sheltered place where the sand was pure white,
And the little waves caressed the shore,
The dried seaweed crunched underfoot,
Creating the pungent smell of sea,
He threw him in the deepest part.

He struggled.
Broke the surface once.
Gulped the air.
Fell back.
In the crystal clear water,
Legs threshing in the sea of life.
Then his mouth opened to the ocean.
Wild eyes.
The last ****.
And then stillness.
The stillness of a carcass anchored,
To the sandy bottom,
With twin stones  from a worn rocky field.

I lamented the cruelty of it all.
But then for all its beauty,
Connemara was a hard and cruel place.
The gallows audience left,
Let the tide to do its work.
Never to swim there again,
A place tainted by the evil,
Of the drowning of the dog.

When the sun makes day,
With mist and dew,
In the camps of 1945,
The barbed wire still weeps.

In deserted land of West Mayo,
Abandoned potato drills,
And the hunger of 1845,
The barbed wire still weeps.

In the desert sun,
Of Sabra and Shatila,
And the now deserted camps of 1985,
The barbed wire still weeps.

In the African air,
The Sun of Zaire,
In the camps of 1995,
The barbed wire still weeps.

In  Jerusalem halls and Palestine walls,
In the morning light,  
Where Abraham calls,
The barbed wire still weeps.

If we ever  forget,  
Or if we ever regret,
The barbed wire,
Will weep for us all.

She stands outside the shop
Contra Natura,
On Rua Dos Correeiros.
I just happen to see while watching the Brazil match,
The fans in yellow rushing to the square...Park do Comerico

Leaning against the green tiled facade,
Cigarette in her left hand.
Dressed in faded grey jeans,
Black jumper, ***** sneakers,
She is beautiful.

The shop display holds a blindfolded manikin,
Dog collar and lead.
See through plastic underpants,
He looks happy.

She draws on her gauloises
Looks to her left.
And with a look of distain,
Dismisses that reality.

In her annual review,
Her boss Mr Costa has demanded,
That she sells more whips,
Beautifully she looks at him with same dismissal.



In her garret on Rua Da Madalena,
She reads Fernando Pessoa.
Cigarette in the left hand,
A glass of Douro red to her right,
Leg draped over a worn armchair.

This is her real life,
A world devoid of the Slavery of work.
Life and Slavery,
Two ships passing unknown,
Unrecognised,uncommunicative.

Her soul is an orchestra,
I can't decern the instruments.
Harps, piano, drums don't know,
I can only see the music.

Breakfast crunching cornflakes,
The sound of Roman legions
Marching down Appian Way.
Just sounds, word sounds,
The Dictionary of all sounds.

An empty polystyrene cup,
And loose change offered,
For many timed re-mortgaged soul.
Elbows on the altar,
Of a dried coffee ringed universe.

Helpless in supplication,
Bargaining with the Devil,
For three immortal lines,
Or three immortal words,
Or even two?
And No.

The telephone lines hum even on a clear still day.
When I lie on my back and no wind disturbs the leaves,
I can still hear the call of whispered conversations,
Along the copper wired humdrum messenger .
Margaret is pregnant again....joy or sorrow ?
Johnny Underwood died last night ...drunk or sober?
“Don’t say that on the phone you never know who might be listening”
And Ellie the ever eavesdropping Post mistress indignantly cries,
“How dare you insinuate I’m listening”
The vibrating copper linking souls to an engaged tone.