TRAVEL POEM
Graveyard in Connemara
Graveyard in Connemara
There is a graveyard
In Connemara
Where children
Who were never baptized,
Are buried.
Under the bog
They lie in their coffins.
Alone, and unmarked,
Un-nameable orphans.
Wind howls, and fog shrouds,
As rains hammer often.
There is a graveyard
In Connemara
Where wanderers, drunks,
Or the friendless,
Are buried.
Plucked from the street
Un-claimable strangers
Who died, or were beaten
By Ireland’s dangers,
Rattle about
Subterranean mangers.
There is a graveyard
In Connemara
Where changelings
Who were born un-lucky,
Are buried.
Lame, or deformed,
Perceived as defiled,
Belief held:
The devil had stolen the child,
Instead, leaving this
Chromosomally wild
Abortion to linger
Accursed, reviled
Till murdered,
They lay with the other exiled.
Somebody said
There had to be water
(Strange, in this landscape’s
Inherent disorder)
Rushing beside
Where this shamble of stones
Marked this unfortunate
Chaos of bones;
These abject
Unknowns.
Clouds, like a spell,
Hover insistently.
Sheep, if they graze,
Do so, indifferently.
Prayers, if they’re heard
Dissipate instantly.
Days pass persistently.
There is a graveyard
In Connemara
(The ground here is wetter.)
Where suicides,
(But, what if
Death is no better?)
The worst offenders,
Are buried.
All who were judged unworthy
Are hidden
Far from the fields
Where horses are ridden.
Green, and the grace,
And the brogue, and the love
Of this land,
Or a word, or a hand
Are for these here,
Untraceable, hapless,
Or rogue…
Forbidden.
Forbidden.