Wistful Words When Words Won’t Wend

For Brendan

Age, bending the writing wrist,
Chinese tortures the mind,
And words, which used to spring
Formed and furred to the magnet line
Now hide in fluff, moaning about hard times,
Envy the early life of tardier minds.

The mind has stolen all the cotton wool,
Made a mountain shroud, a mound excuse
To dodge a revelation, void a vision.
Tired, it hides behind the loose
Cairns of blinkered thoughts,
Trying to join the dots, dot the ego.

I grub around, stumble over swords,
Looking for good-behaviour words.
The best ones went, toys tossed all over the floor;
Those left, too lazy, silly, too poor,
Still scrabble the plastic walls of waste,
Wishing they‘d practised harder for your sake.


Honor O Brolchain