SINN FEIN

SINN FEIN

(Ourselves, Alone)

 

In the village of Cross, County Clare,

the mongrel, black and white with knotted hair

stretches stiffly, slowly rubs its meagre rump

against a wooden door.

 

Above rolling hills, a bird of prey

floats sweetly on thermal draughts,

dives sharply for the kill.

 

Man endures a narrow stance,

coarse genetic wedge,

time's unstable imprint,

the folly of sweet despair,

as fumes fill

a sealed garage,

or sudden blasts

that slay one's foe.

 

Ourselves, Alone:  a labyrinth

where Grecian myths must merge:

Sisyphus stumbles up and down;

Prometheus in chains bound tight.

 

A match impales the Irish night,

fiery tongue of bitter sulfur

the blind will never taste.

 

The promise of pastoral bliss:

lakes and fish; cattle, sheep. Easy,

one might think to unfetter,

mend the ill.

 

With twitching pus-caked lids,

the dog coils round to nip its tail

then softly settles in the shade

to doze again

in lovely County Clare.