Poems by
Bernard Gilhooly
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Dead Season


​In a dead season,

The child with his hoop

Scudding

Down empty dust-blown streets;



Spinning top

Whipped crazily clockwise,

Hours and years

Whirled ticking into silence;



In cobbled gutter

Thumb flicks marbles,

Hand turns to show

Scabbed sore knuckles ....



Healed now, as from the fireside

I watch wind thrash among leafless poplars;

Suddenly I see him

Pause by the gate – look up;



I knock on the window,

But he cannot hear,

Immersed out there

In his long-dead season.


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