Here, in the fields of mercy, the spirits of those
hundreds, thousands
of children, women, men, come brushing by me,
fleeing the human hornets
of fanaticism and greed, though too many have found
quiet in the bitter depths
of the Mediterranean Sea – who will, one day, rise again
to the surface, children, women, men
with psalms accusatory on their lips. Now I stand
on the sheltered island coast, the sea
brushing the shore softly; I am awed by the yellow-linen
stillness of evening primrose, and by butterflies
storming the buddleia, while the star-shaped
golden-white geranium is wilting
in its pot. Ageing body, dull brain perplexed,
I am startled by the scream of a black-back
carrion gull and can image the over-crowded tubs
and rusting wrecks out
on perilous seas; I know that I – faced
with such human turbulence – am runt and reckling,
am no commander nor able-bodied seaman to steer
the desperate into harbour. Knowing,
as I do, the lyric impulse touches on strange borders
and is entranced by mystery, affecting little.
John F Deane's is the author of several poetry collections, short story collections and novels, and a memoir, Give Dust a Tongue. He is founder of Poetry Ireland and has been shortlisted for the TS Eliot Prize and The Irish Times Poetry Now Award. He is a member of Aosdana.
