Log nEnech

Knowing that time for truth
comes through talk when all
is said and done

come to the trinity
of instinct and two figures
rooted in a single mind

one an Irish poet
one a homeless migrant

dwelling in the ear
of any who will listen
for beauty in a song.

Seperated together
to be remembered and recorded
in the corpus of a work
imprinted in the hollows of the heart

shining from the watchpoints of the soul
and lighting landscapes of expression
buried deep as Cuchullain
fighting waves of human forces
warring over cattle in Connaught.

Let us uncover ancient rites
in the migrant's Irish heart
which the poet has composed
on benches at the canal's bank
after weaving in make believe with fact

forming thoughts to run
in a channel of oral metrics
reconnected with in stubborn defiance
to those whose learning
is a metaphor for darkness

its geography anchored
to a synthetic sky in static glow
casting ink black pools
of sharp cold sunless flame
severing blind the past

cutting sound lucid measure dead
leaving it to shrug dumbly and look on
as written words weight its tongue silent
in poetry's eternal cycle of departure and return