New Irish Writing: Poetry by Sighle Meehan

​The hearse chugs uphill through my years. An almost empty church. Ghosts mostly. They fuss around my coffin, bicker and applaud, these family dead who’ve always loved me. Mahler echoes through the aisles my father come to take me home. A world ​​​​​​of music without end, a symphony of stars and moons, seas and suns and solar winds orchestrated by a vast hand, my part hinged like the skylark’s song to blue infinity, the why of me pinpointed on a score I can read at last.