Thursday, March 09, 2006

Trevor Joyce

Sweeny, Peregrine
The Verse


God has given me life;

without music, without rest,
without woman's company,
he gave me life,

and so you find me here
living disgraced in Ros Bearaigh;
the life God gave
seems somehow dislocated.

You do not wish to know me.


The blackthorn drinks my blood again,
my face bleeds on the sodden wood.

Flood and ebb encompass me;
lunar phases can't affect
the homicidal iron I dread.

Thorns lance my sores. I doze.


Is it the cold that wakes me;
can deadly iron draw near through dream?

Here night is palpable. - Listen!
hear the sound of mounted men
thunderous through the echoing wood;
have they my imminent death in mind?

Only the rain throbs on the grass. more...


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