Dear gentle, sweet and weeping girl

 

Dear gentle, sweet and weeping girl,

these times are harsh

The rumours swirl

a gloomy story set on a marsh

Priest unfurl when they confess and curl

swollen fingers around a cross

forgetting in a moment of blindness who’s their boss.

 

A promise is a promise they say.

‘I’ll do, I’ll do’ they pray.

But these words are dandelions, the wind shook and blew

into a prison between bars of iron.

 

Dear gentle, sweet and weeping girl,

The meadows are over flowed with blood.

Cows graze, have red milk and walk in mud.

We are born alone, we’ll always be

Ladybirds and honey bees

Fighting extinction between orchard trees.

 

A one wheel bike, a flagrant dud, a piece of rotten smelly meat.

Never fully alive, never complete.

A promise is a promise they’ll say,

‘I’ll do, I’ll do’. They say and then they’ll stray.

 But all these words are bubble gum the tongue shook and blew.

 

Dear gentle, sweet and weeping girl, our hiraeth is true.

We all long for our home,

something permanent, set in stone.

 

But the flesh we’re wrapped in is nothing more than an aerodrome, where

tourists come and tourists go.

Some plasticine they mould, then crumble and sell. They desire

to both mortifying their soul and keep alive their fire

But the faithless mouth’s breath is a liar and puts out the fire.