FUCHSIA

Dis-eased solar plexus

Panic pitch

Mitching

I have an abundance

Of fuchsia at the back of my eyes

Tears of God

And mine a bucketful

For the child

That might have gone

To Letterfrack

And the one who was sent

Into remote cold discipline

Speechless eyes searching

The strangeness

A boy disturbed

By abandonement

Difficult to deal with

For being not wanted

By mother and father

Left to seek of strangers

What would not be given

Could not

Given up and over

To the pretence of Christ

Perverse Gospel

Suffer the little children

The little children suffered