Who am I

Who am I, now?

I am beyond the point of no return,

more than half a century.

I am not young and I am not old,

(these things are, they say,

in the end, mere numbers.)

I am father,

sometimes mother,

my own parents gone,

yet I am still son.

I am uncle, cousin, brother,

and what are these too but

varying degrees of relative?

Names and labels sometimes fitting

but I am not a cheap portrait,

finalised in one hasty sitting.

No, no, my palette

demands much more

if I am to answer this question

with a truly perfect score.

I ask myself again, repeating the question,

who am I, now?

I am lover, fiancé, gardener, guitarist,

I am writer, widower, poet and artist.

I am blood pressure gone awry,

I am philosopher puzzling why.

I am soon to be retired,

fearful, hopeful,

often tired.

I am all of these and so much more,

these words describe, they name,

they change, they stay the same.

Who am I now?

as I always was

and will be,





2011 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,500 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 25 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

The Emperor Has No Clothes

The Emperor Has No Clothes


I’m often told ‘twas a lovely day,

No doubt the sun was warm the air was clear.

In preening pride he stepped out the way,

The crowds ready primed to raise fine cheers.


On his way he went, basking in the praise

“Such beauty” and “such marvellous sewing”

He heard on this most wonderful of days,

So much they loved his colours glowing.


Those who admired with the finest of taste

Agreed that such style they had never known.

Their own fashions, clothes, all were now but waste,

Tomorrow they would wear what he had worn.


The Emperor knew ‘twas but a noble eye

Could see so fine and then appreciate,

He knew that this they knew, he ambled by

As weavers unseen left the city gate.


While all could see what they all said they saw

Alone in the crowd it was one small boy

Who cried out, “look, but he is in the raw?”

His tiny voice burst false deceiving joy.


First in horror to open mouths hands flew

Now being caught none knew where to look.

The boy said what he saw and it was true,

Thus self-deceit became an open book.


Far better now to laugh, to point the finger,

Not at themselves, of course, but at their king.

So now the poor man could no more linger,

Tears filled his eyes, they began to sting.


They jeered, they sneered, they drove him away

Their own role, the pompous part they played

Was something they could never admit or say,

All hoped that with time all this would fade.


The mother and father of that young boy

Had worries and cares and fears of their own

As those who tell the truth must often cry

Unwanted by the crowd or by the throne.


For he is not welcome who shows the truth,

And cannot stay long in his native land.

Like prophets of old they will him pursue,

Exile is the only card in his hand.


In the dark of that night when soldiers came

Searching and seeking out a voice to still,

They played their own part in life’s cruel game

Fulfilling their own master’s wicked will.


To save face all round for all concerned

The boy and his family they now would seize.

Dangerous truth had punishment earned,

Simple words those in power did not please.



He was gone like the weavers far away,

His parents knew what would come, what to do.

Truth meant here was a place they could not stay,

Lingering a choice they would surely rue.


Going over the hills and far away,

A difficult dangerous road they took.

Among those people they could no more stay

Safe now they’d write their lives as their own book.


Original painting by Iris Meade, Wexford based artist, used with kind permission.

Activities overview

It struck me lately that I should jot down for myself a little note of what I have been doing over the last twelve months or so. Writing when and where I can is fairly obvious, goes without saying as they say. However, I was thinking more in terms of the active art of presenting poetry, the reading aloud that I love. The most frequent is reading at the Kilkenny Writers Group, again, when I can. It is a chance to showcase new and old writings and to try them out as spoken pieces rather than merely words on a page.

Other activities have been the Poetathon, the Random Acts of Poetry, the Poetry Flash Mob, the Culture Night DVD and the Ireland/Lebanese Day reading. They have all been most enjoyable. I think I also could make a note here of the status of various submissions and current writing projects, yes, a little work in progress note would not go astray.

The Poetathon was held in the Workhouse Square in the McDonagh Shopping Centre in Kilkenny and consisted of a stream of poets, young and old, reading poetry in successive waves all day long for International Poetry Day. It was very good and seemed to be well received. Worrth doing again. Others feel free to copy.

During arts Week the Kilkenny Writers printed lots of poems by members and scattered them anonymously in all sorts of venues around the City and County. The idea was that members of the public would be confronted, unexpectedly, with poems by unnamed poets in the most unusual places. It was a great idea and well done.

The Poetry Flash Mob took place on the Parade Plaza on a fine sunny day during the Farmers’ Market. Again the idea of bringing poetry to the most unexpected of places was to the forefront. The event was filmed and photographed and recorded. Judging by the number of people who stopped and listened and in some cases joined in it was a great success.

For Culture Night various poets read some of their work in favourite places and the resulting DVD was shown in the Set Theatre. I am looking forward to getting my own contribution in a suitable format to incorporate it here. To merge film and poetry is an ambition of mine and one I hope to develop more over the coming months.

At the Ireland/Lebanese day I was invited to read from Khalil Gibran’s “The Prophet” and did so. As always at such eventsit was also a great chance to meet interesting people and to practise again the art of reading in public. Wonderful.

On a final note, I have, like all writers, a number of works being considered and a considerable number of works being written. I have two submissions with The Poetry Society in the UK. The group of poems called 5 Shorter Poems is with the County

Library being considered for the Poets on Board Scheme. My novel is one of over 500 entered for the Irish Writers Centre Novel Fair. 20 will be chosen for a day’s exposure to agents and publishers, a marvellous opportunity. My ink stained fingers are crossed for these and others yet to come.

Time now to get back to the pen and paper, to confront the white page and fill it, it’s waiting for me……..

Second Part of the Wexford Coastal Path

Slí Charmain, the Wexford Coastal Path


Chapter One

From quay to quay by bus


            Leaving the station I cross the bridge on foot and admire the streetscape Waterford presents to the river.  A pleasing prospect stretches from Reginald’s Tower at the eastern end of the quays all the way to the bridge’s landfall before me.  Somehow Waterford City has managed not only to retain a wonderful unbroken streetscape from the river but even to generate a sense of pride and affection towards the line of shops and businesses, many dating back to Victorian times and beyond.  No ugly modern cubes break this skyline.  The only modernist touch is opposite the Viking era tower.  There on the boardwalk a beautiful public space is created by means of canvas, wood and steel.  Musicians at times play in this authentic representation of a boat.  At other times the boardwalk promenaders of all ages enjoy sitting while skateboarders glide skilfully by.

Waiting for a bus along the quay, just below the Bus Éireann depot I am surrounded by rich rolling “r’s” of the Waterford/South Kilkenny accent.  The bus I was waiting for was not easy to locate.  Sometimes I despair at how difficult it can be to access information on travelling without your own transport in Ireland.  The various websites supposedly offering timetables with destinations, route planners, fares and prices have been in my experience some of the most frustrating to navigate.  How do tourists manage?  They ask people.  Once on a Dublin bus I had the pleasure of watching a middle-aged German couple wondering whether they were on the right bus, asking for help from various fellow passengers, pensioners all.  The old ladies and gentlemen whipped out their smartphones’, checked their timetabling apps, cross checked with each other and with the kindest of smiles helped and reassured the visiting couple. Ireland of the welcomes, modern style.

The blue and white Suir Valley Transport bus was already waiting when I arrived.  Regulars chatted with the driver while waiting for the off.  As an unknown I was discreetly eyed up and down.  Wearing hiking boots, haversack and sporting a beard makes me easy to categorise.  It was to be a feature of my journeys that as a grey bearded rambler I was welcome everywhere and conversations began easily.  “Where have you come from?”  “Where are you going?”  So many people still take the time to stop and talk when you travel at the speed of an ordinary walk.

The bus loaded at a leisurely pace, information exchanged along with fares, smiles and greetings part of the ritual.  Smaller than the modern, sleek, air-conditioned inter-city buses the Suir Valley blue and white bounced along the quays.  Turning round by Reginald’s Tower we went past Thomas Meagher on his bronze horse, sword held eternally aloft as if frozen at Gettysburg or the disaster at Fredericksburg, half the Fighting Irish, the 69th New York Regiment of the Union Army, wiped out in a day.  Soon we left Waterpark behind and after the roundabouts by Ardkeen Regional hospital the open countryside beckoned.

The hospital at Ardkeen has grown and continues to grow through all the ups and downs of Health Services Provision over the years.  It began life, as far as I know, as a T.B. sanatorium built by the famous, yet ill-starred, Dr. Noel Browne.  A man fired by a burning desire to use a Ministerial position in the First Inter-Party government to eradicate the scourge of T.B. Dr. Browne raided the capital funds of the Hospitals’ Sweepstakes, a form of lottery, to build a chain of sanatoria across the land.  These were designed to accommodate those suffering from the dreaded lung disease.  Long covered over in an ever developing series of buildings and services the old sanatorium can no longer be traced and the folk memory of T.B. as a killer disease is finally fading away.  The old people in my youth spoke of Dr. Browne in hushed and respectful tones, his lingering on in the oral tradition a mighty monument to the man’s work.

Beyond Ardkeen, after a few more bends and twists in the road we reach the official boundary between urban and rural Waterford.  The city has now grown so far and so fast that where I remember fields and country cottages, now housing estates sprawl down to the very water’s edge on our left.  The little bus passes by a sign proclaiming that we are now entering not only County Waterford but the very Barony of Gaultier, whose symbol, the horned goat, looks most lordly like down upon the approaching traveller.  It never fails to make me smile and then the road divides at a “Y” junction, right for the fishing village of Dunmore East, left on the R683 for the estuary, Passage East and the ferry to Wexford and my true beginning, the start of the Slí Charmain, the Wexford coastal path.

Briefly the land changes again and we pass through an area of boggy, rushy fields, the signs of poor drainage and even poorer yields.  Before that we slowly cross the narrow viaduct sheltering a pretty unique pub, Jack Meade’s Under The Bridge.  Nestling under the arches of the bridge there is a centuries old pub where the discerning traveller can enjoy traditional food accompanied by traditional music enhanced by the fragrance of traditional turf.  In winter the open fires are warm and welcoming.  In summer the crowds, especially at the weekends, overspill along the length of a little nearby stream.  Children enjoy the playground, adults the outdoor bar-b-q’s and the music, ranging from Saturday Blues to Sunday Jazz.  Signs along the river warn that it is prone to tidal surges causing levels to rise and even the current flows at times in a contrary fashion.  Such are the dips and folds of the landscape, allied now with an abundance of magnificently mature trees that any sense of being near the sea is only displayed in these signs by the little river.  Yet the great estuary is now only a mere few miles away.

Almost bursting through a tunnel of overhanging foliage the bus quite suddenly brings us to a first view of the Nore, the Suir and the Barrow joined together in their last push for the sea, by Hook or by Crook.  In Irish it is known evocatively as “cumar na dtrí uisce”, the confluence of the three waters.  Across the wide river lies the Wexford shore where the trail will bring me in time to my initial major landmark, the old lighthouse at Hook Head.  Yet I must also remember that the great anticipated landmarks are not always the highlights of a journey, it is often the minor key which reverberates longest and it is good to be open to these and to their noticing.

As we sweep downhill with a cliff fall on our left between us and the sea the Wexford coast presents herself as a wooded, steep slope dropping to the shore with no trace of habitation or work of human hands.  Now the vista opens and down below the roof tops of Passage East appear.  Grey in various shades and multi-angled they must surely be an artist’s delight.  A slight glance left and the eye catches the ferry crossing from Ballyhack.  There an ancient castle of the Knights Templar stands sentinel over the river route and the handful of houses clustered around a little fishing harbour and the slipway landing for the ferry.

As on the Passage side the cliffs around Ballyhack are close to the water, so close that I can see my onward path, cut as a ledge through the rock to take me from Ballyhack to Arthurstown.  As always at this point on the road the little game begins, will the ferry have turned around from Passage before we arrive at the slipway?  The next move in the game is to estimate the number of vehicles visible on deck and thus the ferry’s turnaround time.  No such luck today, a single turn in the road means the ferry is out of sight and the bus enters Passage East.

Exiting in the square, thanking the driver, rearranging my knapsack, breathing in the saltier air I put one foot forward and walk to the ferry.  A few steps take me out of the square, down a side street and along a little quay.  From now on I am truly on my walking journey, free now from trains and buses I walk to the ferry and when we have crossed the wide water I will leave the ferry and walk along the road.  I am content to wait on the quayside and admire all around me while the ferry approaches again from the other side.

The moment passes by the corner

The moment passes by the corner

Have you ever stood on a street corner,

somewhere, anywhere, everywhere?

Remembering my there is your here,

realising your here is my there.

That corner of moments,

have you ever been there?

It is night and street lights haloed

in misty rain or mere damp and drizzle

release rainbows over residues of oil

gathering on water pooled in gutters.

You breathe in deeply, inhaling

this night so far from home,

this moment so ordinary

yet not ordinary,

not ordinary at all.

Perhaps you stepped

from inside there

to outside here

and so the physical

becomes the emotional.

In turn this takes you out of where you are,

in turn this leaves you in a questioning

where of here.

The where you have come from

and the where you are going

could be anywhere

and this somewhere

then becomes everywhere.

The moment becomes a bubble of time

and you are inside it

beyond this there is nothing

there is only the here, only the now,

as perfect as a thrushes song

caught at evening when there is nothing else

but liquid notes pouring over you

like light pouring perfect rainbows

over wayside puddles.

There is nothing else.

Have you ever noticed my love

how often these moments occur

with you?

They always lie to us

They always lie to us

They always lie to us.

When they proclaim they are

telling the truth

they act as if this were

virtue on their part,

rather than a sacred duty.

They always lie to us,

the wars never end

by Christmas,

there were no weapons of

mass destruction

and which is it,

that more of theirs die

than the fewer of ours,

or that fewer of ours die

than the more of theirs?

They always lie to us,

the failing fail safes

are never going to hold,

situations are always

worse than they proclaim.

They always lie to us.

Drip feeding us morsels,


tit bits of truth

is also a form of lying.

They always lie to us,

so much so

that it is no longer

a source of sadness,


the sadness lies

in how often we


how seldom we


in our ever and always


not realising that

they always lie to us.

This was published as part of Kilkenny Library Poets on Board scheme for January 2012

Rambling random recitations

Kilkenny Writers Group presented these random acts of poetry on the main square, the Parade, as part of Arts Week in August 2011.  Filmed during the weekly Farmers’ Market the poets are reading their work in the shadow of Kilkenny Castle.  It was wonderful to hear poetry among people going about their daily business, many paused and listened, perhaps you might do the same?

The Homecoming

The Homecoming

At school the tension had been barely restrained all day.  Every chance to whisper, to pass notes, had been taken.  There was plenty of scope for furtive planning.  The teachers were much busier than usual with errands to other rooms.  Grinning at each other in the corridors they gave an occasional glance towards their rooms.  Their talk was all about the match.  All of them had been.  The boys whispered about the homecoming.  Only the lucky few had been.

In the yard at little lunch Reilly shoved Power against the pebble dashed wall in the far corner.  It was bright in the September sunshine, an hour before the Angelus.  It helped that the sunlit corner was also farthest from the gate.  The teachers were still staying close together on yard patrol, leisurely going through the details of the match.

“What ya do that for?”

Walsh was big, not as tall as Reilly, but heavier and much better in a fight.  Like a lot of the lads he hung around with, there was a hurl in his hand that day above all days.  Reilly stepped away, shrugging back his jacket.  Keeping his eye on Walsh he finally said, steady enough, “I was saying I have flares for tonight, he called me a fucking liar, that’s it.”

“Yeah?  How many?”  The thought of letting off some flares in the crowd immediately interested them all.

“Three!” piped up the squeak Brennan.  He was always doing this, almost physically putting both feet in it at every inopportune moment.  In class this earned him a lot of cuffs across the ear for blurted wrong answers, where silence would have been merely ignored.

Just then they noticed the teachers coming their way, the growing crowd now too big to be ignored.  Walsh grabbed a sliotar from one of the younger boys brave enough to fringe the edges of the big lads.  A quick puck of the ball and a chorus of “catch it sir!” ringing around the yard was enough of a diversion.

Shortly after the bell went and in their lines they filed inside.

It was after the Angelus prayers, while they still stood silent, that he laid down the law.

“Fools names, like fools faces, are often seen in public places.”

He often quoted the only graffiti he ever saw that he asserted was worth reading.

“If I see any boy from this class, no, from this school.”  He paused for effect, for emphasis, to range his eyes over them, closely seeking close attention.  “Up to any sort of mischief, anything I say, then he will pay for it.”

He looked at the neat rows of boys.  They looked at the floor, looked sideways, glanced away; anything to avoid being caught in the glare, being singled out.

“We all remember the Patrick’s Day Parade, don’t we Callaghan?”

That was the cue for a permissible round of laughter.  They all remembered Callaghan bursting out through the barriers as the head of the parade turned into High Street.  He swaggered along for a few yards, delighted to be showing off.  A Garda Sergeant gave the nod and a couple of stewards chased him back into the crowds of spectators.  It was only a momentary distraction on the day but the following morning’s retribution was both swift and harsh.

As the final bell of the day rang, before the stampede for the door, he called out one last time.  “Remember what I said lads.  Enjoy yourselves at the homecoming, but you don’t have to act the maggot to do that.”

Then they were gone, racing out of the yard, out through the gates, only slowing down as the different little knots formed and went their differing streets.  Reilly, Doyle and Cleere went down the hill, aiming to take a short cut through the lanes and back across the bridge as fast as they could.  They all lived near enough the railway station.  They could be there, at the very start of the homecoming.

“It’s not every day you get to see the McCarthy Cup up close,” piped up Brennan, skipping along at their heels, having finally caught up with them.  The rest were too excited to be bothered by him.  When it came time for them to disperse momentarily homewards they all roared around the crossroads, “come on the cats!” and shouted that they would be back at the same spot early.

Disappearing home they were gone to dump bags and books, to collect colours and flags, gone to wolf down a meal and ignore parental warnings and avoid the care of younger siblings where necessary.  Who wanted to care about anything or anyone else?  Tonight was a free night and who knew where a fair wind down John Street might blow you?  Reilly took the three flares down from a shelf in the coal shed before he left.  This was going to be a homecoming to remember.

“There he is!”

“Where?  I can’t see a thing in this crowd.”

“Come on, we can squeeze along the back there.”

The crowd heaved towards the station entrance leaving a thinner press along the edges farthest away.  Doyle and Cleere ducked and dived through the throng, Doyle calling back helpful hints to Cleere.  Reilly, sheltering behind a fat lamp post, held his jacket tightly closed with his right hand, his left hand thrust deep inside held the flares unseen.

“We can see nothing here,” complained Brennan.  They were all dwarfed by the crowd, the people pressed closer, the roars were loud and prolonged.  They were almost trapped.

“We should’ve gotten into the station earlier,” shouted Doyle, “we could’ve at least seen the hurlers then!”

A man with a small child clutching a flag tightly on his shoulders overheard.  He smiled and told them, “listen out for the detonators lads.  Ye’ll hear them at least.”

“Detonators!”  They were impressed and wanted to ask more but the man was gone.  They could see the child’s flag further in, tiny amongst all the other banners snapping and crackling in the breeze.  Their view was blocked in every direction.  Others from school were being equally pushed back to the edges.

“Here, Walsh,” said Reilly, “what’s the story with the detonators?”

“They’re on the tracks,” chorused three or four of the lads in unison.  Others added in bits they’d heard.

“They put them on the tracks.”

“Train rolls over them and boom!  They set them off!”

“A whole load of ‘em.”

Reilly was getting exasperated now.

“They’ll be nothing.  You won’t even hear them down here.”

Face flushed and eyes bright with excitement Walsh shot back at him, “you’ll hear it!  Don’t you worry you’ll…”  As if on cue they all heard it and they and the crowd roared as one, answering the train whistle’s first shrill blast.

Just as the crowds roar died away, just as breath was taken again, just as the whistle’s echoes died away, the first of the detonators exploded.  Louder than they had expected the sharp reports satisfied them deeply.  A series of loud bangs rapidly filled the air until lost in further rounds of cheering all around them, the closer sounds muffling the more distant.  There was a forward surge of people pushing even more urgently towards the station.  The release in pressure created spaces and they were gone.

Moving downhill, down John’s Street, away from the station, they headed towards the team’s ultimate destination.  Getting ahead they might have some chance of climbing to some decent vantage point.  Reilly felt a warming glow of excitement when he fingered the cylinders tucked deep inside his jacket.  He twisted sideways through knots of people in his way, anxious not to bump into people lest they collide with his flares.

Brennan and Cleere were laughing at the drunks staggering out of pubs along the way.  Bench hugging oul’ lads, tongues loosened with drink, were letting fly their usually corner mouthed comments on the passing parade.

“Dan!”  They called loudly, “you’ll be late for your own funeral!  They’ll be gone on ya before ya get there!”

Poor Dan was confused, some of the crowds were heading towards the hurlers and others back across town.  His staring eyes were opened even wider than usual, even more obviously astonished by the world around him.  Girls with woollen colours woven into their hair flirted with face-painted boys.  Mothers with buggies grew snappy with Council workers trying to keep them behind crash barriers, trying to keep the roadway clear.  Dan ignored the drunks and with flailing arms was gone further into the streams of people.

“This is worse,” Reilly said to the rest of them when all forward movement finally stopped.  They were over the bridge but ahead both street and pavement narrowed and now they were being funnelled back off the road, behind the barriers.  Gardaí joined the council workers in trying to marshal the flow.

“Fuck this for a craic,” Cleere suggested turning away, down the river and through theCastlePark.  “We can look out over the Parade from there.  It’s the only way we can get anywhere now,” he added.

The four of them looked at each other and, without a word spoken, backed left away from the throng.  In seconds they had burst through and were on their way, running towards the roar of the river falling over the weir.  They only stopped when they had to, when even the fittest of them had to put his hands on his knees or lean on the trunk of a tree, gasping for breath.

The flares were large in their small hands.  Passing them around in a circle they each of them acted as if this were nothing new.  None of them wanted to appear in any way anxious.  Doyle held one of them out from him by the base, gauging the weight.  He caught their eyes, grinned and flipped it in the air in a double loop.  He caught it again, easily, held in the same hand it had left.  He was an expert at the game where they threw penknives between the feet of an opponent.

Cleere held it up and looked at it closely, wondering what to do with it.  He tugged gently at a little ring on the end of a line.  “What happens if I pull this?”

“What do ya think’ll happen?  It’ll go off in your hand, that’s what’ll happen!”

“Do it!” Brennan shouted. “Go on!  There’s no-one around.”

No-one expected the sudden response.  Blinded by the intense purple light their little circle exploded outwards.  At the first burst of flame Cleere had luckily, instinctively, dropped the flare.  A tongue of almost white heat shot out from the cylinder, causing it to turn on the ground here and there, in random patterns.

Light on their feet they skipped and screamed out of the way of the writhing object on the ground.  Their screams echoed off the walls of the park, rang out among the tall stately trunks of centuries old trees.  Water pouring over the weir drowned the sound of other, more widespread, celebrations.

Even before the purples and reds and other blinding, dazzling colours had finally faded they were gone, gone further down the deserted riverside park.  Gone over the wall, where they knew it could be done.  Gone, with the remaining flares held tightly by Reilly.  Gone from scorch marks across the gravel littered with the first of the falling autumn leaves.

They trotted together, avoiding the open spaces, keeping out of sight among the trees.  Skirting gingerly around the edge of the Castle they paused and crouched down, peering around the base of a turret.  The Rose Garden was all that lay between them and their goal.  The walls along by the great public square of the parade were encrusted with others like themselves.  Older boys and young men had achieved advantaged views by climbing on the roof of the public toilets tucked against the walls.  The homecoming crowd were jammed in their thousands into every available space.  The Mayor and the Corporation in their scarlet robes had their own viewing point, a temporary platform across the Parade where they would officially great the returning champions.  As one Reilly, Cleere, Brennan and Doyle raced to find a space across the Rose Garden.

Walsh looked behind him, hurl still in his hand.  He saw them running towards where he stood with lads taller and older than himself, struggling to hold his place, precariously balance on the flat concrete roof.  “There they are! I told you!” he shouted, tugging at the arm of one of the older lads.  Others turned with him as the boys reached the garden side of the wall.

Jumping down one of the older boys grabbed Brennan and lifting him off the ground threatened him, “Where are they?  Give me the flares or I’ll fucking kill ya!”

Brennan was paralyzed into silence.  Others he didn’t know, all of them older, all of them bigger, were on the grass now and Cleere was rolling on the ground, hands held around his tummy, winded by a punch.  From above them Walsh shouted, “He’s the one!  He has them!”  His free arm was pointing at Reilly who was struggling, one arm twisted behind his back.  “Leave me alone, they’re mine, let go of me, you big thieving bastard!”

It didn’t matter, not even Doyle kicking one of the bigger lads on the shins, leaving him hopping ludicrously around, yelling uselessly.  There were tears of frustration in Reilly’s eyes as the two flares were torn out of his grasp.

Their attackers whooped and yelled and scrambled back up on to the toilet roof.  In front of them the crowd was facing away, across the Parade to where the first of the hurlers mounted the steps of the platform.  The sight of the silver cup gleaming in his hand drove the crowd into their greatest frenzy yet.  No-one was bothered by the first of the flares rendering purple the shadows under the old leafy trees.  No one noticed Reilly climb up on to the roof, wiping his tears away and pushing forward, eyes fixed on the last flare and the hand that held it.  Only those closest in the knot of youngsters on the roof knew that he was tugging at the last flare.

“Give it back! It’s mine!” he screamed with rage.  There was a tug of war, it was brief and ended when neither of them let go and the string was pulled and there was a flash of light and heat.

One by one the hurlers mounted the steps and took their place on the platform.  All eyes were on them, all eyes except at the back of the crowd, pressed against the toilets, jammed against the wall.  There they saw the flames, the jumpers ablaze, the hair on fire, they heard the screams of young boys, they heard the bodies falling down, through the leaves, through the branches, landing with heavy sickening thuds on the concrete of the Mayor’s Walk.


Long-listed for “Fish Story Competition” 2011

City Children

City Children

Some, when they see them,

are prone to predict

the gloomiest of futures.

But now they are children

with children’s thoughts and youthful minds.

Like the plastic they mould into shapes of fantasy

they are moulded by life,

by the things they see and feel,

not the things they may want to see.

Is there even one among them

who will hear the cry of the birds,

see the first beauties of spring,

smell the fertile living earth,

not diesel, tar and concrete?

Who is anyone

to say what might be?

This was published as part of Kilkenny Library Poets on Board scheme for January 2012

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