Eamon Ceannt Park; a cycle
Her boot leathers are wet, grass-greened.
Things have gone aground at the grove,
her parasols all caught up in a breeze of light.
Wood clattery heels sound
their outsoundings, a filigree.
The park is scattered as after a storm.
and the sky is close as goose down.
Geese screel and beat overhead,
There is a man in the stone.
The dew is playing fire at her feet,
A legion of rooks guard his stone.
The route through the groves is…
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