Preparing a new volume of poems I am revisiting the old ones, many published on the blog. The Butter Road is one of these. It's not always a question of just shortening the poem but sometimes it is!
THE
I'd say the road hasn't changed
much two centuries on,
still mossy- stoned underfoot, the
ponies hooves must have sank
in the ruts like ours, booted and
sandal shod. I warned him
about the terrain but he's fond
of the pilgrim way though this
is no spiritual path. Here men
and ponies toiled a week long return
from Mizen head to Skibbereen to
the
with two firkins of salted
butter, thirty- six pounds apiece, bound
for
a lightweight backpack between
us, water, chocolate- snacks
for a day trek, stop to frame
straggling fuchsia, burnished fern, a cottage
embalmed in ivy and bramble, and
the so-called "idle bridge,"
built as relief work during
the famine, leading nowhere, shouldering
failed hopes and bones, and
listen to the same birds, the long-tailed tit flitting
from limb to limb, the rook
setting up a din as we, in passing, disturb
those best left to rest in peace.
Here is the revision:
Mossy-stoned underfoot, the
ponies hooves
must have sank in the ruts
where they toiled a week long
return
from Mizen head to Skibbereen
to the
loaded with two firkins of
salted butter,
thirty- six pounds apiece,
bound for
while we shuffle a
lightweight backpack between us,
stop to frame straggling fuchsia, burnished
fern,
a cottage embalmed in bramble,
and the so-called "idle
bridge,"
relief work during the famine,
leading nowhere, shouldering
failed hopes and bones.
