DÚN AONGHASA
I met a reveller once who told me
of a vast and desperate space on the cliffs of Inismór.
He raised his hand in the air saying how after seven years
an island appeared on the horizon.
He tried to relate all he’d seen up there
half a mile high, but all he could say was
it stoned me.
THE POET DECIDES TO GO IT ALONE
If I were stood on the Atlantic cliffs
it is your voice I would want to hear.
If I were parched under the desert sun
it is your lips I would want to kiss.
But now that I have only one night left to sleep
I will spend it alone.
If I were lost in the city streets
it is your touch I would want to reach.
If I were far out and all at sea
it is your net I would hope would catch me.
But now that I have only one night left to sleep
I will spend it all alone.
THE HALF DOOR
Grey stones, grey walls, grey sky
over a grey sea,
sheets of rain pass from the Atlantic
and it’s five miles to town.
The fridge door doesn’t close and the milk won’t keep
so I learn to drink my tea black.
I stoke the range for encouragement
and dream of French breads hot and soft
I’d butter and eat as quick as you could bake them
among these grey stones, grey walls, grey sky
over a grey sea,
sheets of rain pass over the Atlantic
and it’s five miles to town.
Maybe we should have just painted all those walls –
harebell blue, centaury pink, lady’s bedstraw yellow;
wildflower colours of spring in November
instead of this intolerable grey;
grey stones, grey walls, grey sky
over a grey sea,
sheets of rain pass over the Atlantic
and it’s five miles to town.
Whatever did we talk about in those days?
the quiet, the loneliness
the chance of Aurora Borealis
- or ghost conversations
and the recognisable plough from the half-door.
TURNING THE SOIL
Sitting on the cliff top
between the ribcage coast
and the heart of it all,
I had reached a plateau
where I could smell the rain coming.
As the clouds opened
a perfusion of late summer sun
cast its halo on the water,
below, a long neck cormorant
breasting the bellied roll of the sea.
Presently to the East
to oddly crenelated bookshelves
stacked high
huddled, as urban commuters
hunched against the wind,
their faces behind the sealed windows
watch the rain fall on the lawn;
a periphery of butts
and drowned urban birdsong.