“Underneath the Spreading Cemetery
All the little Worms are full of glee.
They wait for you and they wait for me!
Underneath the Spreading Cemetery.
Always keep on good terms with Worms!
Always keep on good terms with Worms!
Always smile, be good mannered and be best behaviour-ed,
Or one night in a grave in some dark lonesome graveyard
You may meet them again and you won't feel so brave you'd
Best keep on good terms with Worms! Worms!
Dying to meet you!
Worms! worms! Waiting to eat you!
Worms!”
A visit to the alchemist and the tide of fever recedes with a slurp leaving me wrinkled and happy as an untrodden beach. Muchibus Thankibus a dhochtúir! What a pick-me-up is belief! It picks me up yes yes yes and then blows me about the garden like a peppercorn with wings. The old changeable bogweather transmutes; skies of lead to skies of gold. I am carried into happiness by unclad gusts and placed gently among the lilies. Lilies! Graveyard flowers! I mock them! I own the pathetic fallacy. I own the weather. Like a lover blinded the wind breathes for me only. For who else? I alone. Even the donkeys have gone beyont.
With the delicious heat come delicious breezes, gentle as mist, stroking and carding and cleaning the garden. Kindness to me and a sweet flicking brutality to the midges that forces them back into the undergrowth. They begrudge us from there, waiting, always, impatient, like heirs at a deathbed. In the black undergrowth poison midgets are brewing bootleg among the nettles, testing needles, gnashing teeth, snorting hemlock and nightshade. When the soupy blight evenings return so will they, resurrected as crowns of thorn, in stinging hordes. Men have been known to go mad, screaming from the black bog turbary, blinded, groping for salvation in smoke-filled taverns, which they will not find again. Ni fheicfadh tú feasta iad!
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