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
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