AG CRIOST AN SIOL
- 2 days ago
- 1 min read
By Llorraine Mc Colgan
Tom is dead.
A shot of him
atop the coffin
in the cold country church
plonked amidst, it must be, forty fields
bare of cattle
just resting green.
For someone loved,
someone vivid,
the prayers are perfunctory
delivered flat
and the only stories told of him
are by a Polish priest who never knew him
but got them second hand..
When the cello curls
in on its own heart
the walnut wood of the pew vibrates
and all of the ghost roots reattach.
Where stone is brutal and the humans fail
The trees stand
To witness, to hum and lament.