I Have Stood At The Grave Of The Hero

I have stood at the grave of the Hero

I have stood, graveside, at the word smithy anvil,
Tourist, and after due obeisance taken coffee looking back
As I thumb his words.
Happenstance, and tea towels, salads, does his rhyme
Achieve and his words bring revolution,
The greasy till Invoked.
The poets bone draws vim and vigour of inspiration at Drumcliffe,
With apple pie and cream and outside
A banned cigarette and selfie texted at his rest.

His ancestry prayer house, parson and poem,
And Madam Blavatsky, ‘are you there, are you there’
‘Someone with the letter M’.
The chapel at Drumcliffe must close its door
Against the inward flying searching birds.

The poet’s grave draws from foreign lands,
Sight seer, ‘are you there,
Are you there, someone with
The letter Y.’
I have stood at the grave of the hero.