Scale

 

It is mid-afternoon in Dublin;

two boys are hammering the shit out of each other;

no one else is around; they don’t know just yet,

but this is the end of their friendship.

Pull out.

At a city crossroads a motorbike slows;

five shots ring out, two pedestrians collapse,

one is dead, one will be maimed;

the motorbike is now two streets away.

Pull out.

All is suddenly people running

through the streets escaping chaos;

most don’t know what happened;

outside a bookshop bodies scattered like litter.

Pull out.

Two nations are flexing toward war;

there’s ongoing military build-up along the border,

incendiary rhetoric,

and fear is churning the insides of both sets of citizens.

Pull Out.

Europe, all of it, in one eyeful;

the sharp curve of the globe;

blue iris earth;

earth a drop of water; beautiful.

Pull out.

‘There may be intelligent life out there,’

one creature said to another,

looking beyond the moons of its planet;

‘but I doubt it.’

Small Wonders

 

Photograph by Paul Caponigro

What skies beneath our feet,

what immensities we trample;

how much gentler our step would be

if we saw the minute wonders of the world.

Water

 

Far down, a glimmer of light;

down 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 water

and mystery.

Pristine; icy; we drank

beautiful water,

and believed it to be purity.

Western Landscape

 

The clouds are on the fields;

limestone walls their arms,

and thorns glistening black;

white berries of rain are

dropping from haws; haws

like rubies on slender fingers.

Limestone-locked, sodden

fields in thrall to water:

caged cress-green reveries;

long memories and dumb

to speak, as the sea might,

of sorrows buried in their depths.

 

October Leaves

 

October leaves on the footpath and pond

were galaxies, star-shaped maple;

colours of evening, hearth colours;

of a year whose duties have been seen to;

of hands when the deal is done.

Russet, reds, yellows, browns:

colours of contentment, of retiring.

In November they were rotting, blackening

sodden heaps, turning back to humus,

my October stars. In December they were gone,

but left hand-shaped traces all over the path,

waving back, waving back, those happy souls.

Correction

 

Church, state, company, brother/sisterhood ask for loyalty,

not to what is right but to their advancement.

It is time now for a thousand whistles to blow:

ask not what you can do for your country – ask what you can do

that is right.

Fall

 

In keeping with the principle of relativity,

when the branch gave, she travelled past galaxies,

enchanted by their beauty, gently down,

admiring Autumn’s Doppler Effect on the stars,

the shift from green to reds, browns and yellows.

Near the speed of light, she might have mapped

the universe but for this reverie,

so when she touched down (with a frightening thud),

the research was left undone; subsequently

her attention was diverted into a different field.

Her Hair

 

Her hair

fell, long entwined tresses

down the length of her back,

down past her knees.

Sunlight nested there,

in those long ivy trails;

small birds must surely have flown

garlands about her head?

But today it was patterns

of run-off water on the strand;

the way the past is preserved;

still beautiful, if stone.

 

All of it,

all our care,

all our passion,

will become, soon enough,

just beautiful smoke.

No Name

 

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 the rucksack

set up home

White Page

 

White is infinite:

infinite symmetries,

infinite perfections.

Intimidating therefore:

imperfection on white

is unforgivable.

Nightie Night

 

I turned on my side, shadows moved between the wardrobe

and the ceiling, and over in the corner near the door. I closed

my eyes. Main Street was in the pours, its shops streaming down

the car windows, neon flashes, on and off, our faces dim

as 30watt bulbs, on off, on off, the car a prison of rain drumming

bad temper into our ears, and shapes of people fleeing both sides

of the street, like we too should be getting away, moving somewhere.

I opened my eyes to see Jesus in the wallpaper and closed my eyes

as quickly not to see Him, behind my eyelids a legion of angels

descended in iodine-coloured light from where coal-black clouds

had opened Heaven onto the earth. Open again, the lights of a car

travelled across the room, and left it blacker; where, I wondered,

                     can cars go in the pitch black night?

A World

 

Gods; we make all that is in the world

beautiful when we are lovers.

In our sunlight all that was ordinary

is now spectacular, part of our happiness,

gathered around us, by us, to fulfill our

knowing of each other. All that is mundane,

the daily effects and events shine

with the gleam we see in each other;

all we live within heightened to exhilaration.

Love sees its perfection where it lives,

celebrates its belonging, and is complete.

Surprise, Mam

 

If the stars fell

like snow

so all around

was a glow of lights

streaming

down our eyes,

making a surprise

of happiness,

I’d remember you,

between two lines

of July-dancing

sheets,

pegs in your teeth,

fast clouds in your hair;

ah, to be there

again

making a surprise

of happiness.

Leaving

 

I wonder how it is taking leave of your loved ones that last time,

or  watching the daffodils fade knowing it ito be your last season,

or hearing the words ‘rest now, breathing is too difficult’, knowing

those on the shore are letting the mooring line slip into the water.