Many’s the match that was hatched at the Mass
Many’s the gladeye was cast over heavenly ones
Tender and pale as thejuniper lamb.
Many’s the silent tear, siphoned away
Hidden within the inner pocket
Baled out to brew and pour once more
from battered aluminium teapots for one,
Blackenend on log or hot sod.
Many’s the bramager that clung to the altar,
Milking each syllable for the glorious moment
Enunciating each Annunciata,
Her weather eye out for slovenly gents
Who’dhave the temerity
To look, her, in the eye.
Who needs a lasso to pull her from the pulpit.
Many’s the fragile face,
flickered with passing clouds of smiles
that twitched to kiss his black Labrador dog?
and fixed his red paisley bandana
Many’s the mother who thumped on her craw
and begged that the lord would spare her
from all or more of the dolas.
Many’s the time the subtext narrates the true content therein
I pray hard and keep my eyes down.
Margaret O’Shea ©