‘Eamon Ceannt Park’ by C. Murray

Poethead by Chris Murray

Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle



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.



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.



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.




The route through the groves is…

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