At the Library, New Ross
From my window desk, perched
high above the grey slated gables
I pause for thought, seeing spires
rising above the town, my view
tumbles towards two great rivers,
joined now as one, gliding gently
I came to write peacefully,
to avoid distractions,
the well-known, oft cursed,
enemy of poets and writers.
Yet how can I ignore young birches
as Autumn colours grace their leaves
while they cradle in their golden grove
an amphitheater crying out for a voice
to proclaim aloud sheer joy that I live
near such a scribbler’s sanctuary?
The trees tremble as a soft breeze
flutters leaves, then wafts me back to
work where the very blood of words,
fresh ink, flows.
At least one thing
At least one thing I’ll remember,
he smiled happily under the bedclothes.
Bare arms lay suggestive on her pillow,
brown eyes flashing in the dim light.
At least that I’ll think of,
when I remember how I left,
remember how I was told to leave.
Sleeping on a park bench promises things
Will change for the better at dawn
Because the sun clears dew and the lark sings
Above the town’s red chimney studded lawn
While the fawn brown worm and silent snail
Creeping slowly from grass, leave a sign
Where the spotted thrush, with beak like nail,
Pierced shell and turned worm to wine.
Perhaps all this shows that God still lives,
Still cares for all. Rising early I see
A flower reflecting with droplet sieves,
Changing into mosaic sun through a tree
And I am stunned by amazing art
In small things playing such a tiny part.
Ships in the night
All right, I was happy then,
just being with you.
Even if every time
opened my mouth
thought I was after
you weren’t prepared
whatever that was.
We’re inclined to wonder,
seeing others care lined faces,
just exactly what it is they’ve seen.
In a lecture theatre I met
one who had surely seen and conversed
with the ghost of Hamlet’s father,
long since deceased.
published by “Boyne Berries” Spring 2013
thirst for knowledge
when he died
and part of me
died with that
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