How did you feel, Patrick, washed up
on
a Welsh isle, at that time, with the
sun
among the fishes and the moon
chasing
Jupiter, your place in history
fated
perhaps, but not so clear to see:
was
it the wet and cold that did you?
A
biting wind through sodden cloth?
Did
you sense the snakes of Ireland
summoning
you even then? Expel us,
holy amphibian!
Inshallah, then we
plead with you: drive us
from this land!
It's
not clear now, whether you called
in
your Guineveres and all your
aleswill
table-rounders of that nation
you
abjured, or they called you.
A
king of England and Wales
for
just a few minutes, your
saturated
hallucination, drizzle-dream,
water
on the brain, you never were
would
be, but in the windward shade
of
Holyhead one gathers snakes, like
native
fleet-launching beauties,
were
on the shy side. Couldn't
call
them, deaf buggers, not to mention
the
howling gale. Couldn't love them,
noble
in décolletage, for you
had
a sainthood to secure. Marry,
then
let us new and to new ventures
across
that warm and gentle sea!
No comments:
Post a Comment