Today a sun (for there are many), warms my tired face through thin glass of half-opened regency.
I smell sea, I see sea (if I contort).
Most of Martin’s body has spent its first night in dark clay,
(There is very little sunlight in dark clay but there is some).
Can he feel the sun, any son anywhere?
Perhaps his essence now experiences all the suns (and sons) in the universes.
I am of the flesh and blood (and spirit) of one who is long buried in the chalky clay of this place.
Do bodies in the ground get to know each other? (Stupid question… of course they do).
Like a sneaky, risk taking rhizome,
projecting, tunnelling, confusing, coping and skulking through sea, earth and sad soulful spirit,
I will meet bits of them both on Foynes Street, the Hydra-Centaurus Supercluster, some unholy wholly magical well hidden on Achill Island or in the place where the Welsh live.
And although many might want to piss on their graves.
Members of my family who are still hurting and angry.
The selfish, lost, insecure trumpoline who reigns in another more moneyed place since yesterday.
The blinded, deafened, worshipping angels who would never try to understand the achievements of either of the dead men I mourn. (I am (in part) part of their achievement).
I leave here now, knowing that at least there are two deadish and very special human-being seeds in the ground of this place.
(And everybody knows that if you love and water deadish human-being seeds, amazing human-being trees will grow full of leafy love with nutritious healing fruit).
Why? Because a root must find water (we were told this at Martins funeral).
But remember, water will always find a route.
Isn’t life really fucking trickey, twisty and tasty?