Sealed

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
Migrating
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'

The Rules of Prayer

New short story of mine recently published in the Humag

http://humag.co/prose/the-rules-of-prayer

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.

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.

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.

Leaving

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

Polished.

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,

Robots

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.

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.