From behind the moon boys' graves

    bleed endlessly； from photograph

    to browning photograph they blacken

    headlines， stranded outside of time

    at the story's frigid edge.

    Though they are long buried

    in French soil， we are still speaking

    of trenches， of who rose， who fell，

    who merely hung on. The morning drills

    secretly， like an element that absorbs.

    We are right back where we were

    before the world turned over，

    the dreary steeples of Fermanagh and Tyrone

    are all that Sunday means. Their North

    was not 'The North that never was'.

    Artemis， protector of virgins， shovels up

    fresh pain with the newly-wed

    long-stemmed roses， pressing two worlds

    like a wedding kiss upon another Margaret：

    lip-Irish and an old family ring.

    It's like asking for grey

    when that colour is not recognised，

    or changes colour from friend to friend.

    I track the muse through subwoods， curse

    the roads， but cannot write the kiss.