---CARRIAGE MUSINGS

---Old numbered stones count off
---the fractions of miles. Outside
---my window the world shakes
---by. Sunlight pours through,
---causing me to shield my eyes.
---But its warmth soothes me, the
---journey eased by this salve.

---We pass cars travelling below.
---Looking down from this elevated
---embankment gives a feeling of
---unearthly progress. This fanciful
---pondering shortens the trip home
---to wife and child.

MATCH-DAY

I remember hefting the small
television over the ditch, brambles
catching on the plug and my father
following behind with the video
recorder, bringing images of the
outside world to them. Into the
turf fug and heat and a welcome
as warmly as the blazing fire.

The sky was clear that night, with
the stars pronounced and prominent.
Inside in the kitchen they seemed to
be hanging from the rafters of the old
house. Inside and out meshing together.

The contraptions were fired up, the
buttons pressed and the images flickered
until they settled down. The five of
us, three whiskies, a bottle of stout
and a red Nash’s. Watching figures
to match the sounds they had heard
on the wireless. Sound: noise, loud,
visceral, sharp and defined. The ball
thrown in. The All-Ireland under way.
We all knew the final score – the match
was over two weeks old. But in that
house that night, we watched as if we
were in the Hogan itself.

THREE BROTHERS

Three, brothers, older now, greyer and
slower talk of the day gone by. The
open fire almost fills the eastern wall,
a flamed cavern carved into the stone.
The black kettle, the size of a small
cauldron dangles above the heat, always
on the boil. Another sod is thrown
in and the sparks rise up, flecks of
light escaping up the chimney passage.
The tending of the fire is a

science, no, an art. The placing
of a sod here, then there, the alchemy
of keeping the flame alive, keeping
the heat in the old, crumbling home.
They stayed in that house as long
as they could, until age and infirmity
called them one by one.
First the eldest, the thinker, the clean-shaven.
When they walked their land, listening
to their cattle, divining the soil and

the clouds he was the interpreter.
Next was the youngster, the boy, the
beard. He was the carer though the
others did not realise and neither did he.
Then the middle, the moustache, the
socialite. He who craved company
the most was left alone. He didn’t stay long.
The fire went out, the huge hearth no longer
emitted the heat of before. The house stood alone.
Cold.

FINAL JOURNEY

The back gate of the trailer
slams against the yard,
resonating dully metallic around
the sheds and byres.
--
The cows are hooshed forward
unwillingly, their deep, damp eyes
questioning you. They need your
ever-present guidance. “How do
--
you want to do this?” someone asks.
“See how they come”, you answer.
“See how they come”. Gradually
they inch onwards, heads down,
--
sniffing the hard, cold concrete for
danger, an ancient instinct that now
itches at them; a long-dormant urge
almost bred out of them.
--
A gentle soothing word and a tap
on the flank and the first goes
up, up, up and in. Her soft hard
hooves clang and bang into
--
the bowels of the truck. The
others follow. This is what you
want. There can be no harm. You
were their constant companion.
--
You were there at their Alpha,
and now their Omega. You
sometimes cursed them but always
loved them. Now, however, you
--
have been robbed of one
eye and can no longer be there
for them. You must save yourself
for those who love you.
--
“See how they come”, you say.
A watery eye looks at you.
Your eye waters too.
“See how they come”.

There they go.

ARENAL

Orange heat funnelling down
drowsy calle, rebounding from
adobe walls. Ciccarone snoring
under the verandah.

Midday rain marches from the
horizon, already drenching the
molten peak of Arenal.

FROSTY LEG

Dog has a bad hip and
the frost causes her back leg
to swing outwards, like a sideways
goosestep, in a half-circle.
Moving to it’s own rhythm.

When she hears the car door
shut she struggles to her feet
and shambles over, a smile
full on her face.

Morning Train

Warmth of the kitchen,
comfort of toast and family.
Life waits outside the door.

A stolen minute of conversation.
An extra smile.
The train has left.

But there will be another soon.

Avenue

Denuded avenue, your staunch

path leads unerringly home.

The stakes are cracked and

toppled, the weeds accost your

--

verges. But you lead onwards,

refusing to capitulate.

Your ashen surface, hard and

unyielding at its core yet crumbling

--

at its extremities, manifests in

itself the dissension I feel. My

weak dullness, my wanton ignorance.

Circumspection shunned.

--

I cannot conciliate my desires with

my longings. My will atrophies,

rendering my effusive self-promises

meaningless.

--

The avenue stretches before me.

Denuded. Toppled. Crumbling.

I do not have much time left

If I am to follow its path.

Venice

Alliance betwixt sea and soil,

a lingering amalgam of elements.

Despite the atrophying of your

lineage nonpareil, your calle still

present a panacea for my soul.

A solitary, scriptural state thrust

out; neither apart nor a part. Your

uniqueness has become your entity,

your quirk that I am besotted by.

Spring Snow

Acquiescent blossoms luxuriate in

their chaste covering. Yellow under

white complementing - not diluting.

--

A novelty for the blooms, this dalliance

with a remnant from a bygone season.

They capitulate to its seductive weight

--

and texture, a nebulous cocktail of

wet and dry, light and lighter. A fleeting

glimpse of this slow deliberation acts

--

as a panacea against the obtuse and

belligerent contradictions of everyday.

This creeping vision of nature offers

soaring vision of clarity.

Voices From the Green

Surreal voices, distorted and
obstructed by the barricade
filter through from without to
where I lie myopically scratching,
opining to myself on paeans
and chaos and the
enigmatic intricacies thereof.
--
Maybe I should coerce
my brittle fixation and
bait myself to go out,
out, outside the structure, to
writhe in the doleful
daintiness of the futile.
--
Maybe that's the point?
Futility, decay; these cannot
be heard in surreal childrens' voices.

Night-Walking

The binary blackness,

cordial and aloof like a

debonair pauper, envelops

my desolate brashness. Hidden

by the nigrescence I can

annul my quotidian obligations,

shrouded as I am by the day's

nightgown.

--

Eyes grow used to night's

shades, serrated frosted

stars graduating the totality

of oblivion. Shapes foregather,

a jumble of lines and curves, filling

the inky emptiness. Solitary.

Earth at the end of days.

Pause before the hand ticks.

--

Noise subjugated. Obstructions

doused. Logic debased.

Just I.

Alone.

Free to behold what might have been.