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.