Children of Lir Where you come in at is where you stay The children of Lir are mute as they fly over lakes and see swans reflected in their obsidian depths. The world doesn’t turn on a pin Decades have passed in silent gliding. The hated King in the coffin at the front Will always be there. The daughter silently kissing the coffin Is a Greek tragedy And we are the chorus. As she spins her yarn of dandelion clocks, weaves and sews shirts in voiceless vow. Her promise, to make good the transformation at the predestined time. Speaking not a word in the face of accusation As her own children are stolen. The stake and pyre are banked up A whole day and evening has passed now. Five men in gossamer shirts walk from the funeral with their sister singing The Green and Red of Mayo quietly to themselves putting out the singed hem of her gown. The child with one good arm and one swan’...