Old Eyes

Eyes, in memory, unremovable, fixed, like the star in 'Eileen Aroon' now buried in Bunclody, in County Wexford, and these eyes, still have something to say, and they remain, and they yet continue to pierce their way into my consciousness, yesterday and today align, separated only by refusal, by reluctance to let them have their way, and the picture must be allowed, must be granted its freedom to exist after its death, and those eyes, those eyes of death, question with their question, until they themselves choose to sleep, in a sleep that can never be death, that will return always, they seem to flit between a former death and a present life, they seem to know when to activate and when to retire, and I'm tempted to think that the truth is in the middle somewhere, in that mediocre place, that place that is halfway up the mountain, and those old eyes, spoke to me of love and its search, and then they turned away, to the place that they presently had been focussed upon, and I stood in a lonely place, where music was my master, lending itself to poetry, and I ended up looking at the wall, and at its corner, and the size of my world decreased, and I was assailed by anger, much as I tried to still it, in a time of emptiness.