Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Dublin, with Joan.

My great grandmother was a Murphy . . 
I viewed the men and women who stood on the waterside.
I gazed at their ravaged faces and the skeletal frames 
That were frozen there in time,
Fossilized by the art of the sculptor, and wondered.
Did I, descendant of an emigrant pst, returned as though in homage,
Have the right to gaze on this, this most personal
Of memorials? Was I an intruder on a moment
Of personal and intimate grief?
The Bog People.
In silent hush, but amongst the milling people who were there to gaze,
To look long and long and to marvel,
I stared in awe at the people from so long ago.
Skin leathered by time and peat,
Face preserved in death’s anguish and the 
Scream of death preserved deep and dark,
So many years had passed, and yet they lay
As if they fell to sleeping only yesterday.
Death is amongst us all, and will not pass away.
As though the clock had melted and melded time
Into a swirl of Guinness in a glass,
I stood and stared at the towering walls, the place
That had stood the test of melting time,
Punctuated only by the bullet marks of despair.
Bullet marks; echoed by the round remains of the coins
That were minted before, today, tomorrow,
Currency of time that melts and swirls
Like Guinness in a glass.
(c) 2ndwitch, (20th April 2011)


Blogger joanygee said...

Thank you, Carole. A wonderful evocation of time in Dublin.

5:44 pm  

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