Short Peals Poems

One Stark Trumpet Peals

One Stark Trumpet Peals


At eve, old melodies unwomb,
old ragings wake
as crones, 
stringy hair unbunned,
creep downstairs
to supper on a loin.
As they feed, 
their fingernails
roll back 
and so they gravitate
or, better, crawl 
toward the dawn,
for in the din
that eddies in each ear, 
they can hear 
one stark trumpet peal
as they creep
toward the sun
a final time, 
drawn by 
ancient echoings.


Donal Mahoney