Death on Cherokee Bridge
The overpass: dangerous, slick for April.
A drizzle shrouds the purple heather. Rabbits
are not in season, they masticate until startled
by the thunk of a skull. A hawk who stole
a rodent’s dash now loses its concentration—
momentarily. The mountain stream shimmers
and shams its way around the bloodied slab:
sunrise (impaired by precipitation) too weak
to warm Jimmy Clarke. A shirt-bit dangles
from a piece of bramble; life fully exhaled.
They call the State Pathologist and he erects
his famous white tent. No incision required,
another misadventure. They begin to gather
up on Cherokee Bridge. Mrs. Clarke still sits
at the bottom of the stairs. It’s growing colder.
Robbie Williams Wears a Heart on his Arse.
Robbie Williams wears a heart on his arse.
Screaming kids chase him
through teenage streets,
from Donegal to Perth
and from Paris to puberty
to become summer violins
in an ever-changing orchestra.
Tea-morning women giggle
at his wicked sense of body
and order epicurean sandwiches
of his manhood.
Men, of no fixed emotion
leave women alone, to get off
and jump on his bones.
Robbie Williams wears a heart on his arse
and everybody’s got designs on it.
During Lunch Hour
when the Gods sprung a leak, I took refuge
in the lap of the old chestnut tree.
Warily, she leaned—backwards, forwards,
sideways, sized me up like a bossy headmistress
undressing past pupils in an identity parade:
to recognize a telltale hair-lick, a loud brown
freckle or brazen grin. I’d been sussed,
so I winked at her and she stood
in shock as if to acquiesce the heavens. I ran as soon
as there was a gap in the clouds, and jumped
over an afternoon puddle, boldly
turning for one last glimpse of her chest,
to find the scar made by a child’s hand
had never healed—Rashers Leary 19/4/73.