Sunday, December 31, 2006

283. Béarla

Between the lines
the tines
behind the briars of the rose
pose
awkward living memories.
Unfreeze
our hands
in these neighbouring
but disparate lands
and make us feel
that blood and bone
alone are real.
With resignation
and accommodation
may the grass grow slowly
on the weirs.
May we put an end
to endless tears.

eh?