I am reading those poems about Rusty
three miles down the road from Rusty’s stable,
to children, telling them not to worry
about ‘woodruff’ and ‘artistic touch’, and just
to picture dusk in the shed, house martins,
and the one shape that’s all the poet sees -
the diamond of white on Rusty’s forehead -
in Saint Kinneth’s Church of Ireland in Ballivor
which has been converted to a public library
and even the old harmonium’s been restored
by a priest who, when his work was done,
out of regard for that beautiful instrument,
undid his shoelaces and took off his shoes
to play the Introit to Mozart’s Requiem
and hear the tone of reeds at home again.
All along the road from the town of Trim,
in the aftermath of the worst gale in years,
again and again I slowed to take in
trees that lined roads now lying on their sides.
The librarian, my friend, speaks of water, light,
of days given to keeping her mother warm.
The children don’t know who the poet is.
They’ll take his photo with them back to school.
Their teacher says that they have ‘great minds’
and that they cannot get enough of history,
so I hold up maps, then mention the pane
that’s been broken since (though the shards are saved)
on which someone resting from singing hymns
etched with a diamond - ‘The Comet, Oct. 1858’ -
to preserve a time in the life of this place.
All of this morning has been very blessed.
It is not because a poet who loved
has left this Earth that trees are lying down.
It’s just - like music and out of the blue -
these things have come together in my mind.
Tom French’s most recent collection is Company (Gallery Press)
three miles down the road from Rusty’s stable,
to children, telling them not to worry
about ‘woodruff’ and ‘artistic touch’, and just
to picture dusk in the shed, house martins,
and the one shape that’s all the poet sees -
the diamond of white on Rusty’s forehead -
in Saint Kinneth’s Church of Ireland in Ballivor
which has been converted to a public library
and even the old harmonium’s been restored
by a priest who, when his work was done,
out of regard for that beautiful instrument,
undid his shoelaces and took off his shoes
to play the Introit to Mozart’s Requiem
and hear the tone of reeds at home again.
All along the road from the town of Trim,
in the aftermath of the worst gale in years,
again and again I slowed to take in
trees that lined roads now lying on their sides.
The librarian, my friend, speaks of water, light,
of days given to keeping her mother warm.
The children don’t know who the poet is.
They’ll take his photo with them back to school.
Their teacher says that they have ‘great minds’
and that they cannot get enough of history,
so I hold up maps, then mention the pane
that’s been broken since (though the shards are saved)
on which someone resting from singing hymns
etched with a diamond - ‘The Comet, Oct. 1858’ -
to preserve a time in the life of this place.
All of this morning has been very blessed.
It is not because a poet who loved
has left this Earth that trees are lying down.
It’s just - like music and out of the blue -
these things have come together in my mind.
Tom French’s most recent collection is Company (Gallery Press)
