Famine: A Sequence


the stink of famine

hangs in the bushes still

in the sad celtic hedges


you can catch it

down the line of our landscape

get its taste on every meal



there is famine in our music


famine behind our faces


it is only a field away

has made us all immigrants

guilty for having survived


has separated us from language

cut us from our culture

built blocks around belief


left us on our own


ashamed to be seen

walking out beauty so

honoured by our ancestors


but fostered now to peasants

the drivers of motorway diggers

unearthing bones by accident

under the disappearing hills

– Desmond Egan