And the Birdmen came
Like a light across the river
For the sake of their children
In the fields
Like an Icon
All flesh stopped
Where dogs bark the alms of morning
In their lone cathedral bells
Frontal fangs of edacia
A dark type of ink
That travels through the heart
To the hardened forewings
An exlex of dry beaten joy
In their working-class eyes
Stained glass windows
Of pure green blue
Like a Peregrine Falcon
A god of gothic sorrow
A sculptor of moths
From the borstal olden streets
Orphan Owls who sang the romanesque
Hymns
Of freedom
Exorcists of the fields
That read from the trees
Of the River Dodder
Where blood, wire and anger preach the rhetorical leaves
In the Psalms
Of nocturnal temper
In the sunlight’s beauty
Where de Buitléar
Once cried for the currach
But the Birdmen came from the trees
Where the gurriers are the lords of the field
Where everything that flies
Must eat
Even sorrow
Like a heart amongst the leaves
So moves the Enlightenment
Of trees
Of love’s open gate
Where a red dog came
Bleeding
From its face
A
Feral
Sorrow
.
.
