Poet Dennis Sullivan passes the Growler to Poet O'Brien.
O'Brien to the left, O'Sullivan at the right as usual...
"Through the mist-chill fields I went
With a pitch-fork on my shoulder
Less for use than for devilment."
Passing the Growler:
Less for use
than for devil meant,
With a shoulder at the pitch
erect, yet teetering, I giggle,
I swoop, I sway, I lurch,
my timber put up.
Through the mist,
Through the chill,
to the fields,
into the box,
into the hole,
only by a feeling,
I lumber, then shuffle,
I shamble, and sometimes think to clod,
My timber, perhaps, put down.
I had the dream today,
the box, the box, the box,
a doorway into darkness,
the portal through the mist
Yet, I would enter with a smile,
a life lived, some things left,
for others to make done,
content with that which
I have started and
that which I leave finished…
my timber pitched, a light to find my way,
smirking, I chuckle as I go,
with a desert fork on my shoulder
less for use than for devilment.
" 'e's goot 'is Guinness!"