Snatch (2012)
Séamus Moran
First draft:
Softness shocks
Nestling downy-ness
Of fanning feathers
Amongst the rust-flux
Of metal, smelting the iron
Of tank tracks, bear traps.
Buried in the peat bog,
A crown of thorns –
Brambles where the barbs
Of thistles flourished
Amongst the Somme’s bones,
A Gethsemane of a winter dawn.
Second draft:
Feathers whisper softness
The comfort of pillows –
A memory pushed to the back.
No place amongst the rust-flux
Of metal, smelting iron
Links of tank tracks.
Trees become stumps,
Not all stay buried.
The barbs form crowns of thorns,
Worse than brambles –
Roodscreens across the blasted naves
Amongst the Somme’s bones,
Framing a pale yellow Gethsemane
Of a winter dawn.
In the next century,
We will be found.
