Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle
Her boot leathers are wet, grass-greened.
Things have gone aground at the grove,
her parasols all caught up in a breeze of light.
Wood clattery heels sound
their outsoundings, a filigree.
The park is scattered as after a storm.
and the sky is close as goose down.
Geese screel and beat overhead,
There is a man in the stone.
The dew is playing fire at her feet,
A legion of rooks guard his stone.
The route through the groves is frozen today;
There is no mistaking this scene for a balletic stasis,
A cold sun rises above the minarets
She is glad to leave,
The Queen’s Rook.
And what if she entered that garden wearing her last veil?
The willows lash her face
The only thing seeming alive in this desolate place
He stalks above her veiled head,
She heard a name.
She looks back to the stone
She no longer sees the far away
The path is different by day.
It is dark beneath the tree.
The rising sun has not yet caught
A clutter of dry debris, a black feather
She would sing him if only he let her.
“Intreat me not to leave thee
Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle by Christine Murray was first published at Bone Orchard Poetry Ezine and collected then in Cycles (Lapwing Press, 2013)