Moonfall
for Matt O'Dowd
On days when the moon is in fall and all is dark,
the sites of pilgrimage are plundered,
the gates of sanctuaries forced
and everything that is magical and sacred
is stripped down to barograph and histogram
by masters of the single vision.
Then, those who feel fatigued and faceless,
bronchitic with the weight of life
and the living of it, stumble breathlessly on
lactic with unreasonable expectation,
rained on by cacophony of signal and noise
from satellite and microchip
or paralysed by guilt
from vocation ignored or sin
too readily committed while traversing the path
wearily await poultice and panacea
and awakening from Newton's dreary sleep.
© Copyright John Kavanagh 1999