The Death Of The Idle By The Frozen Ghost Poem by Daniel McDonagh

I lie under a patter feet of rain
In a puddle of disillusioned minds,
A cold raindropp falls on my face like cold steel,
The ghost of winter rubs my skin.

White froth escapes my mouth
As puppet like men dance gingerly on black ice,
Red brick house has heat but blank faces,
Morning dew is mint on sparkling grass.

I have walked the bitter morning with a sunken head
As shame is a billboard outlining my name,
Poor men of poverish pastures
Walk without a penny in drunken dazed dreams.

Rain can refreshing, the reservoir for my thirst,
My senses are blown like confetti in the wind,
Coal coloured clouds race across the sky on black stallions,
I die unloved and ignored in a land caught in the witch’s web.

If the sun should sparkle like the flame from a fire,
May it burn the buildings that corrode the idle,
And when the ice melts and faces break,
May the land I was born to, be born again and stand-alone.

Nov 1987