various ragged fringes
Likely there are many reasons
What has happened:
Touch has sprung
A quick awaken;
Lives have clustered
Where there is land for the eyes.
The farmers can't be stopped from burning off.
Having come unstuck from sleep
The senses are on sweet alert.
A bright fire-engine standing by
The lasting ceremony
Laughing men are beating at the fires.
A Marginal Market for Cardsharps
Here's a trick: Turned Over
That will force A Rude Awaking
In the morning:
Various ragged fringes having trouble with
The forse of wave will shock you more
Than innocent remorse.
Days of headlands
Islands, gorse, ling, heather;
Harebells in flower; gulls in flight:
The sea-fringe bubbles; day is lit
By sharp and suddeen gull-squalls.
Look! A cormorant low over water:
Wingtips ringlet the expanse.
Wind0wave shadows. Sunlit water.
Mary, her fair ffynnon.
Fresh water. Rock at ragged fringe:
The ragged fringes crowding down towards the water
Stepping over sharp and jagged rocks.
The saints, refreshed, prepare to pass across
The sound of water
Stepping over sharp and jagged rocks
After days of varied rages
Faded eyes are on a tattered denim haven:
One more drink: The saints prepare
To pass away.
Fair land across the sound of voices:
Always, a return:
It's time to gather up the fringes and to step across
The book. The phrases lifted
As a cumulation into airy blue
With childrens' voices showing fairness
Right across a shining sound.
In Rarest Atlantis
The island dream of
Mass selected carnage.
Wings and branches, black and tans
And in the East A Rising
Christ of Eire: An half the Dial
In Jail, and ghosts refuse to take their seats
Until the Pope is melted in a Seal
To take the Crown
And Ministry of Postage.
There's drilling; there's a turbulence of arms
Confused in mist: A myth across the bog.
And when the tambour enters a regular thud
We are all enjoined; we are called to the bower
Of a National Passion. And I wish the Queen
Would call home her Ar-
Flushing out the hidden berries
Each pays for intoxicating Each;
Distracted out beyond a bitty coastline;
Contracted out between remoter islets:
Sweet back-handers of an islish fiddle:
More modulets yet for we.
Hags in hedges cackled out at him:
The visages enlightened in the foliage.
The tangle takes the jamboree to pieces
To the rattle of a battered tambourine.
And all the villages remoter
Needled in the bog
A quaking wave;
And in among the orchids in the lime-rock
Wanders many an Irish cracked
And promised ghost.
Circumspect glances confirm that a living is got
And mirrored in the bar.
Rowers force the water by the power of prayer
And without a baler
Forcing crops of oats
From in between the butts of rock, but
Blue eyes of Mayo read of high wages got
Demolishing British Victoriana.
South wet coats: A steam of piss arises
But the surf removes all thought
To music of wind-tattered edges:
All the wild and flowered hedges
And a Western bearded ghost:
Precentralised poetry, so that each
Makes trade with each, untaxed by meaning,
So that fishing out the common culture
Context nets the fiture contact:
Well the waters of
Sainte Marye Virgine:
The brim of a flower-cup
Reflecting her heavens.
Free grant of grace to be less graceless
In among the Guinnesses
And at the planetary setting
In its misty context:
Grace through haze and all the grasses
Wet with it> It is a sentimental notion:
Blue of atmosphere, bespottled, spotlit,
Squally birds set up a quarrel.
Skerries, skelligs, stretch out through
The paler blue, and further pale
but for the jets' grey sliver of
Enlightened lives if lightest airy blue.
Pressing hand-butts in the eyes are
Islands, islands, islands: So many capes,
So many a ragged fringe,
The pattern of a fine-embroidered hem:
So many islands, faces, hosts of
Unexpected ghosts among the cumulations
In the lifted space that's left,
Free gratis Irish Grace, the dip and beaker
Of familiar terns that decorate a margin.
Lucky fingers cluster.
Rubbing eyes it all seems blurring livid
And drops back to the shimmer it was drawn from.
Leaves laugh at the sudden summer fame
That torches sprout awake.
Withdrawal from illusion
As an alcoholic from the rim of promise,
Shaking at the border of the glitter
In a silent pitch:
The ringing of a sound.
Withdrawal of his lips that touched
Exceptional strong under-counter potion.
Sirens of an utter danger
and another place.
Some time spent at margins, gathering wrinkles
Revealed by a fluctual ebb.
Time is a still town till it happens:
Marks of a defloration litter
A mass of people move towards tobacco.
There's a train that brings it in.
The will is clitoral: A little girl
Exciting all the marginalia.
Tobacco is her heavy lover.
Lonely the clitoral man found himself on a wide plain
Between mirrors, not alone, on a lonely
Track of thought.
Gold absorbs us: sobbing rain on water.
Eyes are windows on thew sog of endless green.
There's a blue, a blur, and then I cannot be distinguished
In tiny town, in the margin
My market is full of strange men.
A clitoral trip on the margins,
Braving death or humiliation
Brings us daily deliveries
Of light on the burning corn.
Posts mark out the known beaches
And the owned fields behind.
The ground is a great idea:
Stakes at the crashing edge.
The will migrates as an idea.
Beyong a tatty margin, stranded at outposts,
Sea marks the edges of sedge,
The nether marge. The
Scent of urine dizzies me. It fizzes
in the froth of morth:
Turns chuckling on the verge of sleep.