SMELL THE RAIN

SMELL THE RAIN

 

The cold miserable rain spits at me

It turns to hail and hits me; I wish
My old bones were stronger.
I remember racing down this hill on sunnier days,
The sky was always –

Bluer, smiling on me, a younger self.

Now the rain won’t let up, to leave
Me in peace, to make my way home to my fields.

If I don’t get to my beloved farm soon:

I fear I will die of the cold dampness.
Through rain – there –
My rugged stone walls,

The ones my husband built, where hens jumped
And wild flowers grew, where smile lines
Etched my face.

Now cold wind tears like sharp stones.

When I stumble, I claw earth.
Tears mingle with rain. This is not the first time
I’ve tended to wander;

Wishing to be safe, warm in my lonely marital bed.

I rise, a moor-hen screeches, a hare bounds lightly.

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...