An Irishman's Return Home

I. The body rests in a curragh
that swims the November sea
between the cliffs and the isles
of the gray western country.

Incense plumes pass overhead
as supine palms whiten
to blend into a fell crest;
his stare lifts to tighten.

The spray dries leathered skin, 
a naked shroud of the knave,
who aches to die where his birth
sprung a fate none will brave.

II. A canoe rocked on the Missouri
while cicadas sung the infant to sleep
and revived the image of the coffin ship
where the boy first learned to weep.

Paddles spun chaotic eddies
in the sodden, flaxen air
that struck lungs with heavy breaths;
single drops of sweat run rare.

The bow broke the bank's rake;
cries awoke from the sudden toss
of waves that sent him falling
to the depths embracing a loss.