Saturday, April 26, 2014


Match day crowds of fallen angels
gather against the red brick lines
built with trapped bubble and twines,
congregating in sheltered corners,
glowing embers from another age.

some arbours that are still populated,
flitter with great flocks of gold,
still tethered, but soon to flight

behind the public park rails
wet barked trunks of maples
stand twisted between western
winds and seductive suns;
glistening shields of iron,
ranked and filed
against the winter ruling

there is no room now for ornament
nor leaf,
life, held tight in shielded candle-buds
while fallen comrades lie freely,
soon to resume their sidereal trip.

©Copyright Niall OConnor 2014


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