Barefoot in Connemara
Bow as the invader bangs the war drum
downward along Central St., offer an olive
branch to the soldier who kills the living,
steals the land, claiming mine —
Stay, stay even as you feel abandoned, torn
into the currents descending in the Cathedral of Wells —
the Tao filled darkness of Connemara
is heard in the heart of Godot —
Remember the tramp outside the Swan-Inn wrapped in his
stained wool blanket pleading, don’t stare at me,
his sheared loneliness blending
into the coarser blades of sodden grass
that were mixed with the eyeless rotten potatoes1,
that foul fetid food that stalked-up the swollen souls
as they fell in their walking death along
the Doolough valley istigh an Gorta Mór2.
Stillbow of Mercy rising over the river of hungry words
crossing slab-graves on a wounded journey —
It’s brown-bog-currents pouring forgiveness
into spawning evening pools amidst wild heather
where the humblest – the poor are washed tenderly
barefoot in the pure water of the most Holy God.
– The Duke of Cambridge, January 1846