Lough Graney

 

Lough Graney

1.

Walking the jetty over the lake;

lying there.

Eternity. A June afternoon

in that place of peace;

no one to disturb you

but yourself

rushing over the water

to be with you,

to complete

your happiness.

2.

This surface gifts the heavens to you;

I’ve always wondered how you could leave this place;

what finer existence could inveigle you?

Between lake and sky, soul stepping clear of body,

instantly ecstatic; did you imagine there was somewhere

the wings of your heart would find greater span?

Here, where the soft insistence of eternity enters your soul

and time bows to beauty.

Explorer

 This blog compels me to write, without it I don't think I'd have the motivation. Most would think twice about posting their undistilled efforts;  I find it helps to get ideas down, later I can come back to work them, and so, I'm re-posting some amended poems from a few years ago.

It does mean I get to look back on quite a few posts that should never have been let out, but I console myself  with the thought that even the greatest  photgraphers have taken god knows how many average photographs in their quest to capture their most prized images.]

Explorer

Collecting your warmth on the palm of my hand:

explorer of exotic landscapes,

brushing over the warm skin,

the shallow arc of your back.

Behind closed eyes:

the sunlit concave of a desert dune

amidst an undulating vastness:

the sun-warmed backs of dreams.

Travelling

 

cross the bridge

of your childhood

rolling it up

as you go

keep it

over your shoulder

ask for directions

to the desert

you’ll have arrived

when you are nowhere

unroll your pack

set up home

Mystery

Far down; a glimmer of light

from inside the earth;

a wonder to our young eyes.

We lowered the bucket

through the ferns and darkness

to collect magic

and drew it up, heavy with mystery.

Pristine, icy; we drank

and believed it to be purity.

A Conundrum of Physics

 

What is the law that states:

a particular quantity of liquid

is available for spillage from a glass

without changing the quantity

that remains within the glass.

We’re in Slattery’s front lounge;

it’s packed, a lively Friday-night crowd;

a small lady, slightly tipsy, more than actually,

is having another glass of red wine,

and in the act of bringing it to her mouth

sends a curtain of it around the room

catching everyone at chest height

with, what I would consider, a generous

portion of her drink.

Genteel-mannered all around;

“not at all, not at all, it's only a drop of wine”

“Aw this blouse, I was never fond of it anyway”;

she drinks on

totally oblivious to the cacophony of jangling nerves.

Our Day at the Pump House

 

Won’t we remember our day at the pump house;

I played jangly old piano, you danced in sequins;

a few people came, a few more seemed to leave;

the trees were what trees should be in warm sunlight,

cast shadows dark enough for their leaves to be richest green

and the old buildings, with their stories peeling, stood there

like it was old news, and it was to them, but lives are short.

And won’t we remember you lay prone on the grass for hours;

it wasn’t the best of days and still, one day, it will be the best of days;

our day in the grounds of the old spa, the warm sun;

and I playing jangly old piano; you dancing in sequins.