There's a moth on a thistle! In broad daylight, between the showers and the rain and the sun. It's a bit muddy like, after all the rain, in the field at the gable end of Seanie McHaughey's house, over the five bar gate, tricky now in wellos after 10 pints, the slip and the slide of it all, among the crowds, the throngs, the hordes, descending there like it's Glastonbury. The moth, still there, but not on the thistle, on a Dandelion, a dent de Lion, a Piss the bed, a clock head, blow to tell the time. We need a shrine, a shroud, a commemoration, an adoration, a plenerary divulgence among all the effluence and the cows. I Know, we know, the hanging gardens of Babylon, The Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China, We know men on the moon and heading to mars, and the Holocaust, and children blown to bits on Palestinian beaches, we know the clock counting down in times square, the mushroom cloud over Hiroshima, the Sistine Chapel, the sunflowers by the one eared madman, we know,we've heard Gershwin, Beethoven,The Sex Pistols, but this is a moth upon a Dandelion, upon a thistle, like, well like in a Heaney poem, we need to bolt the doors lock the gates, erect a grandstand, build an airport, we have it, we have it, we have it, the moth, the dandelion, the thistle.

So there it is. So there we are. Trump, Cameron, Kenny. The thing is, I know, politics, fairness,cruelty, left wing, right wing. I know.And it matters, and I will vote, and I will protest. But now. Here and now. there is something. Not a poem, not a, what? Grand statement? Policy? Confession? No. This is an expression, a conveying of feeling, something that could be a poem, but clearly isn't. I feel smiley face, I feel hope, I feel feathers. They are the things right? I don't know what I'm saying, but I'm saying what I'm knowing. This is more than the main thing, but less than the major theme, the final thing. Or is it? There is the self, the self is the centre, there are so many selves.So many us to make we. We the people. The people as individuals of collective solipsism. Empirical beings of personal history. Personal landscape, personal genetic nature, personal nurture. All, well most, needing escape (hope , forgiveness, chance, enlightenment, answers). The less we travel the more we need flights of fancy, especially if what we seek to escape is ourselves. To not be me, ah that must be glorious, but not death, not yet. This is it, this is me right now in the moment, a record of now, because none of us can take then back. Words. Too many words. But then the song. Talk. Too much talk. Sometimes. Then we float, float on the dreams of ourselves, against the odds: still, though, despite, because, well, because we can, and because we won't give in, give up. What else can we do but re-bound? Our heads in our hands lets us see nothing, but inside. Something, something is the beat, something is so much better, better than nothing. Something, something, something.

Teardrops un-fallen. Something, a bit like nothing, remains within. Best not speak out, or feel-out-loud. Keep the mask dry, your un-wet face, have another kiss, another chocolate, another beer. There,there, my dear, cup of tea? That's better.