Planter
from the Irish of Giolla Bríde Ó hEódhusa, 16th century
You who plant the tree,
Will you live to see the apple?
When the branches grow and spread,
That you will view them, is it certain?
You may be gone before it flowers
In the green and lovely orchard.
Consider as you fix the stake,
That that is often how things happen.
Should the fruit of those bright branches
Ripen; and your hand enclose it,
Will you eat it, sweet companion?
Death makes such an outcome doubtful.
You show little wisdom, Sir,
You who own the fragrant woodland,
To place your hope on paltry crop
And never make your soul your worry.
-==
Eucharist
A circle of bread,
Broken,
Lifted up
In the full glare of sun.
Scatter of crumbs
Floating to the plate.
How easy
In green meadows
To credit
A myth of love.
-==
Funeral
I could have spared myself the journey:
Wintery sunlight,
Roads dangerous with ice,
My presence of no consequence to the mourners.
But I was mourning too,
For you and for her;
And being here
Was all I had left to do forever.
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