How it’s New York: Poet is a regular visitor to family in NYC.
How it’s Irish: An Irish poem, about an Irish writer in and Irish city.
Cathedral shadow, from
moonlight’s gleam, casts
a shape on world serene.
This ghost of Swift
through gardens green
walks the park at midnight.
With dormant life and inner stare
at world now changed
but yet the same,
with troubles still,
of war and pain
As in my time, long
now gone.
The poor still weak,
the rich still strong.
What might it take,
myself I ask
for men to know,
that life will pass.
Not like a flower to
bloom and please,
and then to die, with
Sweet unease.
But man perverse, will
not adjust,
to God’s request
or Nature’s thrust.
He will persist, with
lack of thought,
to exploit still
the lives he’s bought.
His wealth exceeds
his earthly want,
he yet submits
to earthly greed.
Life has not changed,
this ghost concedes.
Man’s still the same
with wants and needs.
Maybe with time, and God’s will,
He may improve, and may still win.
But for now to rest,
in silent tomb,
in Patrick’s church,
near Dublin’s Coombe.
Perhaps to walk some night again,
And ponder on the fates of men.
