The adorned grave in Howth,

overlooking an Irish Sea, was full

of memorabilia left by fans,

nearby a gardener mowed down

excess green tokens and kept order

between the various plots

lost to time, in his own small world

of Presidents and stars, of the ordinary men

and women who saw this village grow…

…time was we talked here, you and I,

before darkness fell

and shadows widened, we now reside

in cottages of straw and supposed moral

outrage, though yours is greater than mine,

it still was built on foundations of quicksand, no matter

how ornate the drive and fancy

the welcome; this Howth where a black pearl

sleeps and his message of love was wasted

and fell upon ears consumed by hate.

Ian D. Hall 2018.