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


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