Athlone
We followed the footsteps
Down to the Old Red Gates,
Where Frost perched upon
The fading paint first laid down
By men known only through
Wall-mounted moments.
Before us sat the endless fields,
Which now held only earth;
The verge where Ossian fell
Bore our sole crop of
Bared boards and nails.
Some nights I watched,
Feigning sleep, as you
Rose softly from the bed
And eased the door ajar,
Stealing into the dark
As if seeking escape.
To the window I’d come,
To see only a familiar cross
And a hooded figure upon the hill,
Betrayed by clear skies
And a waxing moon.
We’d awake the next morning
To find the verge cleared of snow.
‘Ossian’s been up and in the fields’
The children would cry as I
Shook my head and held them close
While you stood by silent.
We came at last to the northern field,
Where the children once played
Upon the crumbling stone wall
And amongst the ancient oaks
That caged the pasture.
There you stood, chest bare
And blistered feet unshod –
A pale spectre of the past –
Spade gripped and thrust
Into the unyielding earth
Like Demeter’s champion.
We stood and watched,
Eyes held dry by the cold
And the children uphill,
As you sought to best
Nature by brute force alone.
But each quart of sweat
Bought you but an inch
Of that cursed, barren dirt,
And with each desperate thrust
Your figure seemed to dwindle,
Made more of bone than flesh.
When finally you fell, weeping
Upon the bloodied handle,
Palms splintered and eyes utterly
Emptied, we rushed and held you
And you hid your face among us.
The ragged hole remained,
‘A testament to your failure,’
Held by the Frost as a trophy of war,
More suited to the planting of Man
Than Seed; the shallow grave
A card laid upon a gypsy’s table.
Chris.McDonald@theoohtray.com