Two poems


De Profundis……. vocem meam


Drawn to disease my fellow monks from tomb to altar.

Sent up for trial, though tribulations over.

My slouch brought upright in this chair, haltered

by vestments, trappings of life’s office, weft that withers,

I decompose while you continue speaking out your case.

My defences crumble, the prosecutors have their day,

though night stays mine, Sires, all I now possess.

Je suis Amiel Pons, former Abbé of Alet-les-Bains.


Staff to my flock, father to my townsmen,

wall builder, whom you exhume to satisfy your game.

Gnawed and tendered, I will outlive the gamut

of your accusations. When set back in soil I flourish.

And do not doubt the corruption of the flesh, my victors,

You cast this stench about you when you stir.



Daragh Bradish (c) 2016

Published in The French Literary Review # 24




The round moon up and gaping,

we cross the widest field I ever walked.

Fresh trenches run from side to side,

With tubers still in ridges, as yet no stalks,

And waiting on a warm spring swell

to heave their sprouting to the sky.


We have come from rough lands

on to cultivated ground.

My older gun shouldered companions

disappointed. No game found

worth the kill. I follow at a distance

step across each thrown up mound,

and listen to their easy talk.


There is an old place

half a mile from here,

a fine house fallen into ruin,

almost a sanctuary.

That said, we end arriving at the door

open to whatever might come in.


The dank interior smells of death.

Windows with hanging spears of glass

like bare-fanged hunting hounds,

planked shutters pushed apart,

each room corner festering a mass

of cobwebs. Pigeons everywhere


soon flushed to sudden flight.

An ear split crack of gunshot

echoes through the house.

One bird splinters a frosted moon.



Daragh Bradish (c) 2016

From ‘Easter In March’     Liberties Press 2016