Wednesday, 12 August 2009

Knew you'd miss me. We've been away up a mountain near Cork- rather uncharacteristic- for a whole week with limited supplies. Wrote a couple of unwrought poems. This one describes an attempted escape.

Walking Down a Hill To A Place We Can't Pronounce

When I was younger
I would walk days and days
To places I didn't know
Just to do it

Now I am older
I prefer to pause
And watch cows in a field
Doing cow things

But we set out to walk down to the village we could not pronounce
For wine, bread and beer
There was a pub
An hour she said- confident

We past occasional bungalows like temples high up
Stripped and plain and workmanlike
We plodded down woodland track
Noting bits of rubbish for guidance

We passed abandoned houses full of bees and barking dogs
Others just seemed unfinished
They'd lost interest, with wiring hanging out
And unfinished porches

Then we turned to the speed of the road
Tiring watchful of something unknown called traffic
Here men stood on porches
And made big porticos and lawns

Our end was a crossroads and a pub
And shops which were shut on account of eccentricity
Our limbs were stiff as we sampled our wallets
For meagre funds

We had two and a little more 
The barman told us of the civilization here
back before the temples, back to mounds
Of recent history he was less sure, for all is change and no buttery anymore.

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