to hide out in a church yard
and listen to dreamers
showcase the magic they had weaved
from themselves, for us.
We must have been a strange sight there
amongst the headstones and ancient wood
for the crows periodically broke into
raucous laughter at our bumbling attempts
to make ourselves understood.
The words of Heany, Muldoon and others swirled
bravely above the graves, but none could release
me from the cold embrace, of the damp that rose
from the corpse rich earth below.
I scanned the distance for an understanding
of what my part in all this was, and
afterwords we walk from the Hill in silence
trailing the last of the moment and feelings down
to the roadside where commerce began.
There I covered, and watching from a doorway
I saw the chit-chatting progress
of my fellow travellers quietly putting away
their thoughts, like half eaten sandwiches
in a picnic basket.
Three great knights of the word descended,
and in companionable silence, they went
for coffee, and chocolate cake that was fit
for a Parish priest . . . at least.
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