A Painting of Home, Roscommon

On a frosty way to school,

our breaths condensed into word balloons;

the cows had word balloons,

so had Feeley’s donkey (even though he was a loner),

and Browne’s dog, Darkey. We all had.

They all said ‘Mornin.’ when we passed;

we said ‘Mornin.’

and the cows, eating chewing gum,

watched us head on

with a kind of distracted sympathy.

Childhood was that way, we all got on.

I had friends who were trees and streams;

picking mushrooms was part of our friendship,

cows said ‘thank you’ after milking,

trees regularly joined in our games.

I lived where country became town;

the frost came gleaming across the fields,

right to our back doors; we were all part of the magic,

ourselves, trees, cows; all in the painting,

chatting and looking fine.

Beautiful Day

in memory of my mother, Teresa

The sheets are billowing on the clothes’ lines;

they’re  between us, so I walk across the grass unseen;

I know she’ll be delighted; I’m not expected home for months yet.

I see the top of her head as she’s hangs up another,

and I’m guessing there are two wooden pegs in her mouth;

I put my arms around her from behind.

And the sheets are doing the dance they do in the wind,

kicking up wildly to their own rhythmless tattoo.

Away, over the garden hedges, sheets from many gardens

are escaping across the July sky, as wheeling swallows

are notes that have broken free from their staves;

Mam, I know it now: our days are short, but aren’t they beautiful?