the madrigal, volume i
helen jenks and tomás clancy
by tomás clancy
If you were ever to go,
where the mangroves grow
rising in a measured mess of boughs
from dusty mounds of ashen terracotta.
Where the waxy gnarled talons do clasp
together a home for weary walkers beneath.
Where the sails for high like veils
on a wedding morn, way above the sealed frames.
You too, could make a life, inspecting
Gnashed bones at the cusp of dust in
and feel a toiled wind sweep by lonely ways
where once the winds of war did change.
Troops don’t swell here anymore
here there is but the clamour of criers on the Pentecost.
Oh, but in the hearth of a home,
one could feel to be a jewel of rare quality
set firm in the dizzying symphony
another soul joined in the chorus of sirocco.