At_Last

Wit - of frill - eschews it. Yet, it endures. Just open to it, From within, Look up. And listen Listen Listen to the birdsong. And look

A spiring steeple on Cobh hill, Unwavering, Unwaving, Heaven's beacon, mute,

Presenting, as obtrusions will, Yet without a spark of saving Booty from the famine ships. Unchosen's children ever chill These pointless pointing gestures still. Those, in fasting,

Slipped away, Those in slips, Who fast away, Cast away, Passed A way beside the Manx.

No nods. No heralds from God. No heads bowed in thanks, Nor voices of lament,

Ranks fallen of enfeeblement.

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