Paul is having technical problems today so he hasn’t been able to post today’s clutch of poems. I’ll post mine now and add the link later.
They all look like you, Cuchulainn,
heroes all have the same handsome face,
your breadth and brawn,
the same thickness of skull, lightness of heart.
All are born sword in hand, each one
draws his first blood before he speaks his first words,
then speaks only to defy and demand his due.
They have memories rich in every slight
over nine generations of forefathers,
but they cannot remember their children’s names,
their number, nor their mother’s faces.
The have tactics not principles,
their hands are for murder not love.
They fight for an insult, a misheard word,
an unlucky omen, a woman’s bright eyes,
a seer’s garbled prophecy. Their honour
more important than a child’s tears.
Never a one fights for a cause,
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