Bandit country

In this land of loughs and dry burials

The invisible forms itself into visibility

In the dialect of words – tattered,

Stained, inadequate – visceral words

Spew like blood from a gargoyle

Into this mist-ridden air where these

Burrows hide the dead inside blessed

Earth where dogs still dig for bones

And where the music of the very air

Is lacerated by the explosions of anger

We see upon the red faces of the clerics

Who continue to assault the innocent

And where a Derry air can still be heard

Plaintively, singing the songs of the dead.


Image result for lough fermanagh

◄ A shadow behind the sun

The solitary rose of your breath ►


Profile image

Paul Sayer

Mon 2nd Dec 2019 22:43

Christ John, another level!

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message