What springs to mind is a far off digging
sound, the likes of which you'd hear out
west, as if slabs of wetness are being cut,
as a sleán is driven through wild peonies, cotton
-grass, and flowering swathes of bull rushes.
Come dusk, turf pyramids scatter a dying
sun across lesser known layers, where bog oak
is sought after. It was our Cerberus drives home
the fact wee young Emily Rose Aldershot
had in fact being shot. Three bullets she took
to the heart his nose found, our curious little cocker
spaniel, not far below butterworth and sundew,
in her embroidery anglicise holy communion frock.
Heather and blood-orange asphodels sway
as her white ribbon surrenders to inevitable dusk.
Copyright © Anne Fitzgerald 2012
