by Medbh McGuckian

by Medbh McGuckian
     From behind the moon boys' graves
     bleed endlessly； from photograph
     to browning photograph they blacken
     headlines， stranded outside of time
     at the story's frigid edge.
     Though they are long buried
     in French soil， we are still speaking
     of trenches， of who rose， who fell，
     who merely hung on. The morning drills
     secretly， like an element that absorbs.
     We are right back where we were
     before the world turned over，
     the dreary steeples of Fermanagh and Tyrone
     are all that Sunday means. Their North
     was not 'The North that never was'.
     Artemis， protector of virgins， shovels up
     fresh pain with the newly-wed
     long-stemmed roses， pressing two worlds
     like a wedding kiss upon another Margaret：
     lip-Irish and an old family ring.
     It's like asking for grey
     when that colour is not recognised，
     or changes colour from friend to friend.
     I track the muse through subwoods， curse
     the roads， but cannot write the kiss.