Friday, January 17, 2014

Banbridge memories

I awaken
with allergies and chills,
my head swollen
with Banbridge hedgerows.
A breeze chases through the open door
cases and coats in a pile
the exodus from Loft House to Oak.

Later I stroll down to the farmhouse
with Jack and James,
a gentle slope underfoot.
The curve of a gnarled apple trunk
stands centre stage, devoid of fruit.
Leaning over the wooden fence
fallen pippins circle the yard,
rosy ripe, pecked by the birds.
A vegetable patch lies dormant
like a burial mound,
remnants of potato drills
smothered in weeds,
and I think of young hands
that once worked the land,
raised generations of family
not so long ago.

The cock crows from a distant fields.
I look to five light hill
and sigh,
our last day already.

Sparkle of Wings




A flight of gulls
glide the rooftops
coasting towards the sea.
The train chugs deeper
into the city,
sparkles of ocean
ripple behind me,
purple mountains
fade in the distance.


Dark tunnels of Summer’s end
emerge to elderberry Autumn.
Auburn fields fly by
and I am surrounded by strangers,
knees touching knees,
my feet poised tippy-toes
ready to take flight
like the wings of birds.
I want to feel cool water
splash between my toes,
to return to the sea,
to the shine of Greystones,


away from the drab grey concrete
of the city.