Carrickmannon

He stands alone at the graveside
Still holding the handful of earth
That signifies dust to dust.
The gaping hole devours the wooden box,
A few crumbs of soil topple over the edge
Making a hollow sound.
Tears run slowly down his cheeks
Salting his lips and the wind stings his eyes
All feeling has gone, time stands still.
The child, the youth, the man, are all buried here.
How can he just walk away and leave them.
Both their souls rise together and an empty body
Returns home.

 

Senility

Like lost monarchs sitting on rexine thrones.
Crowns tilted, woolen cardigans and slippered feet.
Either sleeping or staring into space,
Capable of nothing but shuffling to the dinner table.
Where food is only another way of passing the time

Dripping mouths wiped clean with a napkin.
Whoever thought they would come to this
In the past they ruled, provided and enjoyed life.
Now they are sentenced to live in no man’s land
And their only crime is growing old.

 

The Fiddler

He hugs his old fiddle close to his chin,
His head bent to cradle it, as though part of him.
The sweet music flows from the strings and the bow
And in time to the music, he rocks to and fro.

No spoken word does he need to say?
He just lifts the old fiddle and begins to play.
The fingers are gnarled but the melody’s sweet
And time melts away with the tapping of feet.

Friends rally round him to hear the refrains,
Sad ones and glad ones played over again.
But the tempo gets slower as the years take their toll
And soon from the maestro there’ll be nothing at all.

 

The Hanging Tree

I don’t know how long it’s stood its ground
Or where it’s history can be found,
I only know ‘tween you and me
I think it was a hanging tree.

Late in the night when the moon is high
I swear I hear somebody cry,
A long and agonizing yell
As if they were entering the gates of hell.

Listen? Can you hear it now?
The chain that swings from the robust bough,
Supporting frayed and knotted rope
That once embodied a wretch’s throat.

Swaying and creaking in the wind
An epitaph to those who’ve sinned
I say to mortals let it be,
I think it was a hanging tree.

 

Mourne Mist

Come with me
And we will walk beyond the mist
That hides the Mournes.
The mist that joins the heavens
To the majestic mountains so forlorn.

What shall we find?
Hidden there
Behind their veils?
Like folk or giants
Lost legends of the Gaels.

Do not be afraid
We will touch neither
Thorn or ring
But pass through, to find
The place where sirens sing

Listen and you will hear
The music backed by waterfall and stream
And feel the calm
That only mountain air can bring.

Yes! Come with me

Peggy Fulton