Perhaps it's a little consolation that the village <br />Lays a carpet of whispers as you are led into <br />Church on Sundays. That they look towards your pew <br />at an angle and grab a glimpse of their lives <br />In the blankness as though it were a mirror. <br />When you hear those prayers for the sick through <br />The nave of the priest's hands, who do you see? <br />Or hear? Last winter's ice underfoot <br />On the way to the cowhouse, or some October's <br />Apple falling. Which will not splinter or fall <br />Through your eyes again. <br /> <br />Once, thinking you were alone, you shuddered. <br />Then, like transparent fruit, two tears were shook <br />Free from your pain's branch. A sob, too much <br />In your hands already, shattered the silence <br />And cracks raced to my shore of vision <br />Exposing a torrent of helplessness. <br />Sometimes when I chase a last pea around the plate <br />Or say 'That girl is really pretty' <br />I feel as if I've opened a letter <br />That isn't for me.<br /><br />Seamus Hogan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/damascus/
