Frank Corcoran

irish composer


I’ve come from my ” Salasso” hour today .

The needle searched and found the red, red blood.

But what has this to do , is my dismay,

With pyroclastic, heavy tephra , say ?

Sonnets about volcanoes versus writing

About too much of iron in my veins ?

Vesuvio’s a fiery, red-hot , fightin’

Mountain out to burn my aches and pains.

That needle sucked it out, my ferretin,

My vital , sanguine, life-juice, good and mean.

But yet my thoughts were focused on my death

By Etna’s enormous heat and pent-up power.

The saline fluid sang , but I could cower

Glad my roasting hour had not come yet.

Posted under: Humble Hamburg Musings

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