April Dusk

written by

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  April dusk
  It is tragic to be a poet now
  And not a lover
  Paradised under the mutest bough.

  I look through my window and see
  The ghost of life flitting bat-winged.
  O I am as old as a sage can even be,
  O I am as lonely as the first fool kinged.

  The horse in his stall turns away
  From the hay-filled manger, dreaming of grass
  Soft and cool in hollows. Does he neigh
  Jealousy-words for John MacGuigan's ass
  That never was civilised in stall or trace.

  An unmusical ploughboy whistles down the lane
  Not worried at all about the fate of Europe.
  While I sit here feeling the subtle pain
  Of one whose Tree of God has been uprooted.

© Patrick Kavanagh