Ambush

Lost in a forest of legs
Beneath the homely ceiling
Of damp green serge and fag smoke
A girl looks for her father
He went out this morning
Bad tempered at the rain
Late for his own funeral
But real enough, at least
As she lay in her bed's warm nest.
Later, while she ate her cornflakes
Still weak with sleep
A mile away between dripping ditches
He was rubbed out of the picture
To make room for a new Ireland
The muffled percussion of bullets
Lifted a few starlings
Who were keeping their feet warm
On telephone wires
That would presently hum with shock
Later when raised up to wet eyes
To be cursed with truth
There fell on her a type of madness
Scrabbling furiously for a gap
In the hateful logic of the wake
She transmits impotent love
Unsaid, undone, undying
Receiving no signal in return