Sean Hean's body was light
for 80 years' of growth.
It took little effort for his comrades
to carry his frail shell
over the bog
grave land.
The bitter clear wind
from Inver shore
drove tears
from their pitted skulls
struggling as they did
to keep the colours
straight
under their holly crown.

Some had been there
fifty odd years' past
that cruel cold day
when it took longer than was wise
to bury the ambush harvest.

Blood and oil on grey gravel
silence in the sky
and
over the bay
a donkey laughed
like a mad man in the bog
showers of sound.

10/02/2005

Posted on 10/02/2005
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