VIOLETS

VIOLETS

 1

I stare at the house through hedges

And brambles; a thorny reminder
That you won’t always be here.

But I will remember you in violets

There’ll be no light through gaps
Curtains closed in final funeral salute.

Through mossy gaps - I’ll retrace

Your footsteps. I’ll pass each blade of grass
With the stability of stone.

Each shade in the hedge you planted,
Each bush, the gentle wind you love
The moss that covers your wall.

 2

Your fragrance is here,

The softening of time
In a clovered meadow

Your presence is a gift today.
I see you through windows of your home,
Love thickening like hedges.



(Written for my Mother who lives amongst ‘the little hills of Castleblayney’).

NOURISHMENT

NOURISHMENT

The only thing is glass –

between me and the force
of water, crashing
against the boulders.

Picking up beetles:

Insect larvae, molluscs;
whilst dropping off
nourishment in minerals.

The male dipper sits

on his rock-café –
watchful and waiting
to wade the tapestry.

In this small slit of time;

my thirst is quenched
my senses caressed,
every pearl soothed.

I’m in my element

in the silent fall,
and my spirits rise;
as the dipper dives.

The café owner opens
the window to the noise;
silence falling into
the water-fall,

Crashing the lazy bay-
window of thought.

   

OINTMENT

OINTMENT                                                                                                                      

The soil is too shallow for roots
hands smell like damp clay -
an ointment.

The shallow
sombreness of cold weather
people - whose only joy
is pain in daily papers
and news at six and nine;

I sway but the earth
is strong enough
to hold me.

 

 

THE RHYTHM OF WOOD

THE RHYTHM OF WOOD

‘Hazel Burns well - made for fire

Ash splits and cuts easily. The thorn

is the best. Elders are useless’, he gestures

through gaps. His hands are veined

like leaves, he touches his cap in thought.

He is a character from this town land;

born of the substance of soil,

his pride in wood-piles.

A shy bachelor smile - and dragging a branch,

comments on the cold March - his furrowed brow

like his fields are full with life, and worn with the

tread of time, fertilized with the rapture of repetition

which feeds his ragged trouser philanthropy?

Forty acres with a rose-scented doorway to the past, 

and at last, reconciled to being a bachelor and a good

neighbour. I smile gratitude for his earthy routine -

the rhythm of wood freely given.

FUSHIA

FUSHIA

I sway in the swirling spring winds

I am starting to bloom but it’s late,

Small birds perch in the hedgerows -

I like the sandy soil between

Two worlds.

Down by the foams – the wing-span is wide

Dipping between low and high tide.

THE LAST FIRE

THE LAST FIRE

You gathered sticks

to bathe the night with fire,

You, in your element

smiling with watery eyes;

happy sighs - as you bent.

The next day your soul gathered

over your cold body

to be buried under sticks and clay...

THE VALLEY

THE VALLEY

A blow in still from Glasgow

though here  since he was 12.

He was proud of where he lived

in Falcarragh’s valley, not far

from The Station House

where he suffered depression

two years ago.

Hard to believe in a man

with a grin as wide as a rainbow

risng from the mist forming

about the foot of the mountain.

THE EDGE

THE EDGE

You smelled the lake before you saw
The edge – aromas of a time before –
You absorbed the tears of a broken
Mother – while they put wet clay
Over your Father.

Loosing yourself in a haze of puberty,
In that barren land; you got lost in an
Advancing mist, but the ghost of your
Father finds you now, leaning in,
And whispering through the breeze;
“you’re not the first to suffer –
you can face adversity.”

Moved… to another time, another place,

When you made paper boats; with your
Dad’s fragile breath – whispers of wonder –
Setting them free….
You look to the sky and feel, you sense
A different sphere and know…. Your Father
Was in his element when he was with you
And water, on this land.

Although much of him has faded –

You realise this, it fastens you to
The earth – loneliness disappearing;
Drifting away from the edges.

 

 

  

BLOWN

BLOWN

Below the long-grassed dunes

the water-like shadows of sands pass

like time itself…I shudder at the force

of the wind, and the realisation

that life can scatter as quickly; become

diluted by memory, but we always

leave shadows behind. I walk back-wards

for a moment as if to recapture time,

but it has moved on.

So now I stand still, searching the sun-

set, reflected in the sea-waves foamy light.

Above on the dunes; long grasses sway

and below the sand shifts and swirl their shapes

onto the exposed Northwest Shore, a feeling

I have been here before; blown…

 

A NEW DAWN OF WORDS

A New Dawn of Words

I try to let time pass,

Slowly - as always

Yet it still

Goes fast

Beauty of Words...

Ordinary life dimmed

Yet not put out

By this glorious light.

Peace surrounds me

Like a forgotten vale:

Un-earthed from childhood:

A forgotten state of grace.

A web of story-telling -

In a different place

This time…

MOURNING

MOURNING

I think, it was the winding lane that did it – the one

Lined with daffodils (Wordsworth would have approved).

I had my own poem set out, open like the cupped

Yellow offerings; perhaps I’d have added in:  Sun-trapped

Stone steps, coming down from the white-washed loft;

And what the house held:

The bed-rails, the heavy wardrobe and ancient drawers,

The lace of the curtains, and the old dresser,

A range to help a kettle sing, and streams...

Of light across the lanolin floor – peeping

From wide window-sills, with hills outside;

Now, I have to content myself with the fact that - we have

A bigger vegetable patch here, than the little fenced one

At the back of the cottage we nearly had,

I knew the man who lived there once.

SEEDS

    

           SEEDS

               1

On a Sunday in mid-summer

right at the edge of the park

You come to me;

talking future plans

shining eyes

and a heart that dared.

We saw ourselves

buying a car to travel

down to the coast

whenever we took the urge.

All planned out under the elm

of eager spreading roots.

Many seeds scattered

ideas with wings on the breeze

hope floating all the way

towards the sea along winding

open-windowed roads.

             

             2

Smashed in spring – the last                              

season you inhaled;

lying singing on the back seat.

The front driver’s side was saved,

letting me drive

to dreams that died.

Dreams have a way

Of coming at you by the front

And leaving by the back door.

I pass it now, the car

In the scrap yard

At the edge of the town

It’s only half now.

MUM AND SPUDS

MUM AND SPUDS

How are you managing for heating oil?
Do you know that Mrs Mullin died?
I hope you like onions with your stuffing?
You said in your text that you're on nights next.

Heaped on offerings of food,
Hot pans make mood for flavour.
Television. Loud repeated soaps,
Water hissing on stove. Potato
peelings blocking sink - no time to think;

Can i help? I question her red face,
No it's alright - clean the windows instead -
but listen; wait until after you're fed.

POTATOES

POTATOES

I can smell the sweet potato peel

Upon my skin – and I visualise walking

Amongst the summer rows.

I pick over the box of earthy potatoes

When I pull one that is perfect

I turn it in my hand like a gold nugget

Buried in my memory - a charm.

I peel back happiness from the soil,

Memories drop into a watery bowl;

The day we planted them – sowing

Love which had lain on the edges.

Uncertain, I nearly threw love out

With un-seeded tubers; to decay in hedges.

Instead I wrapped them and stored them 

In a cold shed - for spring planting.

I can already see your face shining pride

At flowering drills; you stand with a wide-stance;

The posture of the accomplished soul - your eyes,

Stare lovingly at each planted offering.

I wrote this a couple of years ago; inspired while peeling potaoes - fresh from the soil. The  simple jobs are always the best!

THE WOMAN IN THE DOORWAY

The Woman in the Doorway

Her face peers; with a far-off look

across the road – waiting for a sign

Not recognising me; a stranger,

She goes back inside, to hide;

retreating into her empty nest.

She leaves the front door open wide,

Ready to greet a face;

I wanted to wave at her, to smile,

But she is gone…

I look back down the hill

at the pretty blue

and white cottage,

her abode – adorned with flowers.


I saw this women standing in her doorway, in Kerry. Their was something quaint about her and the cottage; which inspired me.  

ASHES TO ASHES

ASHES TO ASHES

I hurry to the ash-pit to lay them but -
The ashes fly back in my face. 

My eyes rest on laurels – that
Wave their leaves – snow falls
In its finest form – holding
back spring; the in between

Season of words; even the birds
Sing on through the cold March.
 
Thoughts flit and feet
Shift with care-worn tread…
Through gaps which left -
Our love in cinders.


This was written on a cold day; when i was out emptying the ashes from my mother's stove; where she lives amongst the little hills of Monaghan, in a place called Castleblayney.