A poem for Saturday.
Nighthawks.
Nighthawks
Postponing tomorrow
Shooting the breeze.
Rustling down
Long acres
Top booted
Like soldier boys
Watching the road.
Making,
The last stand
At a crossroads
Signalling the end.
The milk churns
Sounding out
Hollow notes.
Stopping for the Angelus
Three Fifteens.
Dog-eared turnings
Round a game
On Sundays
Or the Dance.
The Hirschmanns
Pointing north.
And the night time
Creeping....
like a soft wind
In meadow grass.
Frank Murphy.
Photo: Shrine in Tobertynan Woods Rathmoylan Co. Meath.
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