We crunched our way
across the frozen meadow
two robots, over wrapped
against the cold.
against the cold.
Surrounded by silent sleeping treesand steamy breath, we plucked and picked
at the frozen ivy,
teasing its frozen tentacles
from the dark and cold Roscommon stone.
Our had aunt told us
that we would save the wall,
save it from the fate of older families
who had lived nearby, in now
humbled heaps of drawing rooms and kitchens
upstairs, downstairs, all a-jumble
piles of random dice, tossed aside
each settling a new insult, a new revelation.
Families bound by servitude and obligation.
Our white and pink child fingers,
like lepers at scabs,
like lepers at scabs,
worked until our breath
no longer steamed, and we stole awayto hide, in the warm stables nearby
where oppressed donkey-companions
observed our shivering bodies
with smug disdain.
©Copyright Niall OConnor
Images borrowed from the Web
Published Carty's Poetry Journal July 2011
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