Fool’s Parade

A Poem of Love from Many Moons Ago

The Lover danced his daft parade,

Leaden shoes, mistakes he made.

He did not know which way to trot,

Their lives so very far apart.

He fought, he fraught,

In times he sped,

To lofty points

Her heart had fled.

He saw the woman in her smile,

She would not hold his hand awhile.

She tore his efforts and made them dull

And so he entered twilight’s lull.

His heart unfathomed turned to green,

And draped its corpse on seasoned field.

There, asunder, his mind did go

To darling chambers of sterling glow.

And there within perfect cell

Entwined their scars with weighty zeal;

The hidden stage of uncast spell

In which, her heart, he proved to steal.

But in the chamber the air is stale,

The laughter false, the picture pale.

His vision blurring, his boots no speed

He smashed the glass and left to breathe.

His breathing quickened, his lungs inhaled

The mighty brew of vital ale.

He looked up, blinded, resplendent light,

The solar legions dressed in white.

He cast his mind near and far

To expectation and sanguine charm.

His spirits bolstered, his thinking keen,

Her face, a moment, remained unseen.

But hope dies hard if love is true,

Her face unfurled in memory’s glue.

The mile, the metre, the chill, the plight,

The hot-plumed tempest, the morning light.

And now he sits on mountain side

His cursed form consumed with strife.

And now he sits on mountain side

No way forward, no steps to climb.

Irish Writer