Tinteán

By Mervyn Ennis

Dealan Dhé

The lightening flame of God
why do you quicken
to and fro
on airy wings
from flower to leaf
linger a while
let me absorb your beauty
I’ll not trap your flight
but let my eyes
draw your splendour into my soul
patterns modern as art
old as time
fine as silk threads
strong as spiders webs
delicate, tantalizing, butterfly wings
moving with the wave of a conductors hand
drawing grace notes from a choir
you weave your spell and charms
seamlessly around me
whenever you grace my world.

Carry my wish and prayer on high.

Reflection on a Granddaughters’ first communion

May you know the laughing Christ
of the harvest field
who chewed on sheaves of corn
and defied hypocrisy
argued assertively with the priests in the Temple
made merry at the wedding feast
and broke bread in the bond of friendship.

May you never know his crown of thorns
or buckle under the cross of oppression
may your tears be tears of joy
your sweat the fruit of honest labour
and when the cock crows on a new day
may you never know betrayal.

May your life shine like the sun
your mouth be filled with laughter
and joy burst from your lips
may yours be the earth and its fullness.

The Place of the Skulls

The Massacre of the Innocents” by Brueghel the Younger, 1638.

I was brought up on the flight into Egypt
Mary, a teenager, pregnant on the run
And Joseph who stood by her.
Of swaddling clothes
Mangers and lowly Shepherds
And cruel Herod who ordered
The slaughter of the Holy Innocents

I grew up with a Christ
Who threw neither the first or last stone
Who stooped and marked in the sand
the sins of accusing fingers
Whose feet were washed in Mary Magdalene’s tears
Who died between two thieves?
Yes I was brought up
With the Christ of the holy innocence
Who politicians washed their hands of
So he was scourged, crucified and died
At Golgotha, the place of the skulls

In Tuam, Ireland.

The Wind

The wind is a great story teller,
it whispers through the grass,
laments in the trees,
sighs in the leaves,
rumbles discontent in rusting foliage,
scours the bog troubling heather
dances Mexican waves over fields of corn,
sings through wild Orchids and primroses
and over winding river courses,
thunders around cliffs,
whirls and spits through spout holes,
echoes down valleys,
makes music in the forest
through an orchestra of boughs and branches
but in the grave yard whimpers.

The wind is a great story teller
listen to it

Mervyn Ennis June 2014

Mervyn Ennis has an M. A. from University College Dublin in Social Work. He recently retired as head social worker from the Irish Defence Forces after 21years service in the Personnel Support Services which he helped found in 1992.  He is married to Margaret and they have four adult children and three grandchildren.