‘Eamon Ceannt Park’ by C. Murray

Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle

I.

Ingress.

Her boot leathers are wet, grass-greened.

Things have gone aground at the grove,
only the fairy-ring stands in her circle
of spectral gowns—

her parasols all caught up in a breeze of light.

Wood clattery heels sound
against the stones at the gate,
against a cluster of coppered leaves;

their outsoundings, a filigree.

II.

Inscription.

The park is scattered as after a storm.
The destruction is knave-wrought
A crescent moon is inscribed into the soil
by the small grove,
a willow weeps by its exit,

and the sky is close as goose down.

Geese screel and beat overhead,
someone has sprayed yellow paint on his memorial stone.

III.

There is a man in the stone.

The dew is playing fire at her feet,
wetting her legs.

A legion of rooks guard his stone.

IV.

Stasis.

The route through the groves is frozen today;
even the treetops are caught in ash.

There is no mistaking this scene for a balletic stasis,
it is stick-strewn.

A cold sun rises above the minarets
at park’s edge,
the sound of bells emanates from behind somewhere .

She is glad to leave,
glad to kick the ice from her feet against the stones.

V.

The Queen’s Rook.

And what if she entered that garden wearing her last veil?
The others being ripped by fierce wind and claw.

The willows lash her face
driving her into ecstatic groves.

The only thing seeming alive in this desolate place
is the Queen’s Rook.

He stalks above her veiled head,
his call drowning in his throat.

She heard a name.

VI.

Egress.

She looks back to the stone
From thence to the furrowed hill,
It is of ordinary green.
A rook is atop the gate.

She no longer sees the far away
lit by careening crows.

The path is different by day.

Coda

It is dark beneath the tree.

And,

The rising sun has not yet caught
the edge of the stone.

And,

A clutter of dry debris, a black feather
is housed there.

And,

She would sing him if only he let her.

And,

“Intreat me not to leave thee
Nor to return from following after thee
For whither thou goes I will go ..”

she leaves.

Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle by Christine Murray was first published at Bone Orchard Poetry Ezine and collected then in Cycles (Lapwing Press, 2013)