Taunting a cloudless April sky,
Margaretta’s ardent observation
Galled by pandemic flaunting contrails.
Eyes closed to sun and the omnipresent,
She lies, henna glowing echoes
Of an orange jumpsuit.
A Brigid’s cloaklike furlough
On an unkempt river verge.
The radio turned off, now
Slow from her same saint’s terrace,
Her cocked ankle taps a familiar rhythm.
Ever extraordinary, her renditions:
Greenham, Long Kesh and Shannon.
Did they even listen when she
Scaled that airport fence?
That not so beautiful, when they do,
Infantrymen, might not snooze
Across four seats, inside,
Under snapshots of Jimmy Carter
And Fidel Castro, for good measure.
Eighty-six springs evade calm,
Even should smiling men
Elect their cow be fattened
In other than the greasy tillage
Of these three green fields.
(Cold comfort that Tony Holohan
Stopped them coming down stairs.)
Couldn’t they just fetch up in Brize Norton
To play their gin rummy?
Fiercely cherished fondness
Rathers she rests by Corrib
Than trespass on non-public parts,
But she will, while
Leaves lay, untaken.