May Night
The evening comes down lately in May,
The Church bell from the tower rings,
the train rattles past the distanced
red bricked decency.
The bills for candles, doors painted
and keys replaced.
The grounds tidy and flagpoles white
and fuschia flowers again.
The money counted, banked and sent
to pay those higher up.
The priestly call this day is done
my life eremitically sealed.
And then the staircase,
sleep and dream,
and wait the morning bell
across the wall,
And shake the morning Echium Flower
from out its slumber.
No statues hopefully have moved,
no visions seen by pious rustic soul,
no messages received from distant parts.
The morning train it rattles through,
and carries index linked friends to city hall,
and stock exchange, and law men,
to the four courts hall.
O Yawn! For tedium like a triduum
comes with novena repitition
and unanswered prayer.
The graveyard down the road is full,
of Canons and their retinue,
and parsons lie asleep beneath the soil.
For what remains is expectation,
like cinders to the grate of faith.
O Dawn! to what do we awake,
towards other weathered bettered day?
poem by Bernard Kennedy
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