The chrisom is placed around my head.
The midwife to charm me. The pastor to bless our family bed.
Has the wheel turned in my favour?
Is happiness foretold by the fortune-teller?
My Catholic fingers in font-water.
Ale in the alehouse makes better my humours.
Poachers and apothecaries rest in the tavern.
Drinking, adversities are briefly forgotten.
Move the moon towards my sad rosary.
Will the harvest heed us? How ought i to see?
Providence and promises haunt our village church.
Spectre-eyed priests, in the pulpit, watch.
Does the lantern, tonight, mourn our loss?
As merry as Mary by the cross.
Otherwise, there are street-acts to sorcer
With contentment, almost, in the tricks of the conjurer.
My lonely desires are as lonely as me.
Merchants, elsewhere, mundanely make money.
Mournful Hamlet phones the Samaritans.
Have i my horoscope? Is this my talisman?
I am a peasant with peasant blood.
My simple plough for prosperous earth.
Drink a keg to life-long love.
Then scatter my ashes in the pub.