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This poem is taken from PN Review 200, Volume 37 Number 6, June - July 2011.

Three Poems Tara Bergin

in memoriam

It is unfair to thieve so cruelly, and in such hot light.
The theft has turned the upper fields white:
they are in shock, and pale from all their downy clocks.
But where is the boy's breath?
How will he blow these candles out?
Goodnight, goodnight, even though it is day;
the flower-head has closed, and turned away.

St Patrick's Day Address, 1920

I clutch a bunch of wood sorrel in my fist,
unsure whether to pin it on;
I haven't long, the 3 leaves will close down at night.
But how we flatter, how we coax -
even though we know it is a useless gift.
Still we insist on bending backwards
to touch the filthy stone with our lips.

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