by Eoin Moynihan, Longford

 

Isn’t it soft the skin is on you.

Aren’t those hands of yours so clean.

Has your back never bent to ponder

upon wheelbarrow or heavy beam?

 

Have your eyes been ensnared by some beauty?

It may be; your hand lent purpose to a plume.

Is it poetry that unsettles you,

seduced by some lingering full moon?

 

Be that as it may,

Life will hold sway

And it’s bother, you will not flee.

For it be neither soft hands nor a soft heart

that set us free.