I end with Bloom and sweat

I end with Bloom and sweating,
an achemical green settling on the valley

through my ears I hear him, trudge Dublin streets,
dragging along through interior monologue chains,

allusions I have listened to for years,
they pass as glacial, slow understanding comes

of that intellectual apparatus,
like a mass for the world, none can escape

so said one. My labours begun an hour ago,
of saw, and split, and cracked elbow

have berthed on the shores of these hills:
a bisected tree, low birds deep beneath

sitting slow, dripping, my fog breath
matching that of the valley, grown dark

fuel gone, job half done, I hear the crack
of bracken tundra begun, an approach

of human feet this time, has run,
the phosphor green glow is changing

for orange tender slow, all I can do is look
and sit with its surreal beauty

and wonder at this victory small,
and why no dropping sun from here,

to see,only leaden sky and hill to light
my hungered way home

where smoke and crow roam the sky
and call 'yes, yes' you will come!

Or you end in Bloom, and breathe here
slow, as seasoned wood, on your own.