JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

 

 

Mending A Dry Stone Wall

 

My grandfather repaired our dry-stone wall,

That his own father had raised in his day,

Carefully choosing the fallen stones,

For the shape and size of their array.

 

The sound of one falling into place,

Had  magic and mystique,

As if some secret thing was being entombed,

That only an old dry wall could keep.

 

Now it's come down to me,

To walk that dry stone path,

To handle and position stones,7

The exact same ones, that have been held for generations past.

 

To block up where the fox had run,

Or the panic of a hare,

And feel the soft dust on my hands,

Of those ghosts no longer here.

 

The Old Lamplighter

 

The last lamplighter in the whole wide world,

Has passed away today;

A flame was lit in Heaven,

To guide him on his way.

His ghost was seen in many places,

Where he once brightened darkened streets;

There are still one or two old lamps remaining -

But stand there, just as cast old iron motifs.

 

An early morning riser -

Also, a lighter of the flames,

Familiar as the evening fell -

Yet, he was never known by his proper name.

‘Here comes The Old Lamplighter!

All us kids would give a shout,

Then, with a whoosh of gas - and sometimes a bang,

He would black the darkness out.

 

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

 

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: Irish poet (Native of Cork). Seven collections published. Plus, poems in many international anthologies.  At present living in Paraguay Latin America.