Tuesday, 7 June 2016


The seal
All deep and well
Cold and flowing blue.
Deep again
Under the dark thundra
Rebuilt in ice
From the vital melt.

The Halflings

Wrapped in the blanket
To stay warm, moving on,
And your skin getting
Cold, exposed in the dew,

Wondering if they are
Still with us, your people
Through the terrible
Snow. A long walk away
From war.

No barns buckled round,
Stocked with feed. No
Brambles, all cutback,
Thinned. Moored.

Walking on a devil's mattress,
With bare faith in the way, and
Repeating to yourself the mantra,
'Something stirs in the East'

Saturday, 10 January 2015

Sruth Fada Con

I will walk the Sruth Fada Con,
Haunt of fox and badger, of
Tamed crags drinking water

From smoked wreaks of turf,
Cutback, exposing the bronzed
Gully, the forgotten Ben Bulben

A jumping hare with a glistened 
Tear on the eye, watching the centuries 
Chased and harried, Swaddled in wind-cloth; 

Its beautiful bone can no longer hide
The surface taken. Neolithic slug,
Weathering seasons by the minute.

Monday, 29 December 2014

Taxi on the Quays

Jumping into a taxi not yet arrived is 
The best part of a night, like parcels
In transit, doing the rounds, taking in the
Usual sights with renewed wonder, though

Enough times I've been knocking the on
Door to know that the child's innocence
Is squandered. Walking to town, looking at
My father's tobacco stained hand is long

Gone. First thing in the morning - 
An Icey road, 
First thing in the morning, 
Going to the border carrying a load
Full of meat. 
Pyjamas and slippers,  
Watching street-lamps, 
Knees to my shoulder,
Like a hunching snowball.

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Fourteen Days

We must get to the slopes, past 
The choppy waves, I have a wish
In my bones to arrive, it does not
Matter if I'm asleep or awake.

A howling gale is splashing the waters 
And wrinkles grip my skin like ropes, 
The mast of my sail is still strong and 
My compass gives right direction and scope.

After a cold evening playing outside
Toes licked at the fireplace,
And the eyes and face have felt
The rising chimney stacks
Bricked across suburban 
Heights unbothered 
In the sun.

Biscuit crumbs on
The carpet,
I'm not allowed,
But I want to,
The gate is pretty
Hard and it holds
The velvet lake of lips,
Sculpted and

The grass seed is still hard,
Too heavy for the wind and
Quiet as monks in a canoe,

Dragonflies move closer
To the time when they will
Be spread out on a tablecloth,
Or drying on a clothes horse

By a fire, upended 
And cast aside.

It is not found here,
It is in the valleys and the fields
Under the clouds that rain down
And the leaves that fall.
It is in the train that passes by 
mucking the sleet, burning the coals,
Under street lamps upon coastal
Promenades smashed by winds
And in the hedges sheltering the birds.
It is in the trickle running down the bark 
And on the spade standing at the shed,
Quietly waiting without a word,
Asking for no more.

Rock has two or three colors, depending
On the season. The north facing wall has 
Marks and lichens, put there in cold fronts.

October birch is pale faced as a baby in 
A pram spinning a rattle of doves and fishes,

Waiting to leave and be set 
Alight with the bulrushes.

In dreams,
Change shape,
They want to be like us, make
Love, but when
They awake they revert
Back to their own ways.
Uploading data and
Adding numbers,
Repeating function.
It would be nice to touch
Skin, or in the right moment be frank.

Shelves of rain on the meadow
As if they were
Ghosts in the wild

Twinkling in swathy complexions
Moving southwards
Over the bog,

Horseman's boot upon the peat
And a martyr 
For the cause,

For a moment, taking
A leap
Of Suicide.

Never a fear in play, springing
Around in silhouettes, jumping at
Flies and annoying horses

Only when I lie down
Do you come and smell me,
Fast and innocent

Patter paw on dirty floor

Came to see you and say hello.
I just wanted to go there and see
What happens. It's good to get 
Away. I'll know when I get there!
Last time on the train I fell asleep
In one town and woke up in another.
Do you still go to the woods every
Morning after breakfast and pick
Flowers. I like that. I should make 
More time for my own morning 
Strolls. My Mother is asking for you,
'Are you's two stilling palling around
With each other'. I wish She wouldn't
Ask anymore, but mother's are like 
That, so its alright. Anyway, I am your
Pal! I'll call next week.

Take care.

Friday, 5 September 2014

First of November

Little black trunks with their yellow leaves
Swirling around in the Autumn breeze, The
First of November, heading back to town,
I was catching a bus back to a lady of mine.

Up walked a man with a slant in his jaw, the
Bus stop stage would be his Carnegie hall.
His voice uttered certainties his mind never had
Chewed, saying the government is flawed and
The country is screwed.

Crows in the branches shook themselves free,
Slapping and spanking the air of retreat.
I asked of myself what could this mean, If
Black death's messengers feared a mortal being?

Death in itself is painful to bear, but like falling
Leaves, can hang beautifully in the air.
You see, a hardship coarsely spoken shines dim
To the fair, it injures even the eyes of Lucifer's stare.

Slant jaws and obscenities are of nature made, but
Forgiveness is the treasure we made dig up with such
Spades. Yes, people are suffering, their eyes bloodies and
Broke, and in times of woe may the truth be spoke.

Yet a truth without beauty falls short in the heart,
Those who speak it seek not the stars, because
A souls that ache can shine so bright, it is this
Beauty which takes me home this night.