Snow in Ireland

Truthfully, there is nothing like
snow in Ireland to
prepare you for
the end of the world,
all the green converted
into frozen rugby fields,
vitality and young sad eyes
buried far beneath stadium seats.

You spoke long before
the graveyard came into view,
platitudes and elegies
impatient, escaping from
the moth holes in your gloves,
as you turned to him and said:

'Someday we will learn to love
this place, someday after
the dead branches have
sworn off bright young shoots
and snapped their own heads off.'

He is a foreigner;
he has never experienced
such monotone skies before.
It blinds him. He replies:

'Then there will be
no need for clouds;
the birds will shield us from the sun,
and it will snow feathers,
fat and black and sharp.'

You come upon the last resting ground
where young men's dreams lie,
icy and nostalgic,
impaled by unseen blades of grass
struggling underneath the scoreboard.

'Say something.'

It has stopped snowing.
He does not understand
the solemn reflection of the sun
in your eyes -
he thinks it is a hint of tears
and -

'Say something!'

'This place has taken the lives
of thousands before us,
and it will be the death of us as well.'

'You have a funny accent.'