Boyhood. We spent countless summer hours catching minnows. They were the most happy, carefree times of my life. Maybe that’s why work doesn’t do it for me; empty hours filled with the heat of the sun and the buzzing of bumble bees in a field of buttercups and a sparkling stream running through it: that’s my idea of heaven.
Then and Now
Light cavorting on the stream,
choruses of flies on dung,
the flush green of Roscommon fields.
Whole afternoons I would spend
watching minnows dart
beneath those smidereens of sunlight.
Larder to larder, cold flowing weed,
combed fresh opulence.
No trickery in a jam jar; dull brown they died.
This morning sitting in Dublin;
smidereens of sunlight played on the ceiling
and I remembered this.
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