By William Prendiville
The heart does not grow old.
In each generation it is born again,
striving for clamation, recognition
for what it has done and where it has been.
It gallops, from breast to breast,
heedless of thunder, its
plunder the joys and tears, and outrages
that seize it, occasionally, like a storm,
at a babe alone, a mother dead, a
war ‘gone wrong’, as many did,
and shall continue so.
Oh, the heart seethes, grows cold
as liver in an old chest propped above
a shaking stick, then, when’s done,
when Time has won, and a
single heart is, at best, a note
in Nothingness, another is born,
set for right or wrong, who knows, or
a simple family to maintain,
and singly, and in groups, and altogether
set the day aflame.
And you, my love, I shall
remember, for you tempered
this one so,