The Dark, the Shade and the Light

Wild raspberries in a cloak of moss

Briars on an old stone wall built long ago by man
Or men, servile at the pitch and toss
Of an English landlord who finds himself an also-ran.
 
I dream of the dead days, days when we were muck.
We churned the hatred with fear,
Better not to dream of future or maybe luck,
And all we thought we cherished, never near.
 
Tyrant; the priest who came to visit too
And promised sweet salvation, key and lock,
A place of always rest under the poisoned yew,
Wood pulpits, rosary beads, lambs in heavenly flock.
 
We lived on spuds and cabbage, dared not fuss,
Five stolen eggs to garnish Kerry’s Pink,
While all the while the landlord lived off us
And priest and planter decreed; we had no need to think.
 
What now? Papists and pirates are vanquished; still.
Recollections of relinquished grandeur, sterile as a stone.
Exiles, pariahs, nothing left but an empty till,
Too many remembered sins, too many dogs without a bone.