May Night Poem by Bernard Kennedy

The evening comes down lately in May,
The Church bell from the tower it rings,
the train rattles past the distanced
red bricked decency.
The flagpoles white
and red belled fuschia flowers again.
The priestly call this day is done.
My life is eremetically sealed.

And then the staircase,
sleep and dream,
and wait the morning bell
across the wall,
That sound bell shake the morning
Echium Flower
from out its slumber.

No statues hopefully have moved,
no visions seen by pious rustic soul,
no messages received from distant parts.

The morning train it rattles through,
and carries friends to city hall,
and stock exchange, and law men,
to the four courts justice hall.
A routine tedium like a triduum
comes with this repetition
and unanswered prayer search.

The graveyard down the road is full,
of Canons and their retinue,
and parsons lie asleep beneath the soil.
For what remains is expectation,
like cinders to the grate of faith.