At Cré na Cille
The dead roar through the night On motorbikes, smoking, cursing Worse behaved than in life. Wild with excitement over elections, 1916. Who has new tombstones, who is eyeing who up. The dead come howling into the conversation Wreaking welcome havoc.
They rip up the sky, the air, our dreams And howl at poets and politicians. They are spark plugs Kicking life into dead language. When they leave us suddenly, crying, Without return dates or promises Words turn to slugs. The silence is terrifying.
We turn our faces to the wall Or search the sky for the silver traces Their words leave but what we want Is the sound of distant engines getting louder The women shaking their long hair Out of plumed helmets, the buzz, Our sweet Hell’s Angels revving up.