An auld Covent
watches over its town
by shedding grey husk all over
wondering to be once more found
on the antipodes - across
bygone graveyard
not here neither lost
stubbornly lasts
between the stalks of overgrown grass
from the shadows of Bremen's wings
amidst the dreams of Osiris
Mr. James Michael Christopher Fitzmaurice
holds the town in his care
as a bronze god on a marble chair
and if you dare to step
across the horizon
go by the blue ribbon of a steel bridge
as mighty Jason on a quest for a golden fleece
which probably lies
hidden deep
beneath decrepit walls
of an old fort keep
funded by the order of Queen Mary
a town full of hopes
that floats throughout the current of dreams
dreamed with the words
of dozens of languages
with one common expression
Of home - Port Laoise
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