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.