POETRY

Deceased

Silence is the sound of an empty church after mass
Jesus distorted in the glowing fragments of stained glass 
the smell of incense and blown-out candles. 
The cushion-less pews built for people with shorter backs.
We were smaller after the famine, our bodies remembered.
Many outgrow their parents with each passing generation,
The years without hunger, our bodies remember.  

Silence is the sound of the dead
we bow our heads for a moment to enact it
to speak with them in their language
the moment stretches, children hold their breath until it's time 
for triangular sandwiches on trays with bowls of soup, mugs of tea.  
Relieved we’re not listening to the sound 
of their coffin knocking on earth on their way into the ground.
Released from the memory of their stretch stapled faces.
We are filled with the sound of chatter and spoons against bowls
muffled by curtains, carpets and funeral clothes.
At noon, the pints start to flow
stories are told in the language of the living. 
Their lingering presence our bodies remember. 

Self Portrait

My city legs are something I put on like trousers,
	a second skin that protects me 
		from city bin lorries 
			bus breaks hissing and 
				pavements only wide enough for one person.  
					Dog shit, mucus and vomit from the night before.
				Back to the wind, I seek 
			a path free from cobble, concrete and pavement.
		I follow a trail carved by repeated footfall 
	to the ocean, where waves drown out traffic.
Speckled finch find their breakfast 
	on moored boats covered in algae.
		I go to mass once a year at Christmas
			sometimes Easter 
				as long as it leads to dinner.
					I size up my reflection in windows.
				I get drunk twice a month.
			I bleed on a full moon.
		I witness the small ecosystem in stone walls
	ivy, moss and fern. I sit outside between 
green and cold bright blue 
	until bare legs tucked 
		look like chicken pale plucked
			I face towards the sun. 

Musings of a Lawn in Leitrim

In slow motion you follow the sun that moves 
from east to west and the grass with 
frosted tips you watch it melt green wet 
until shadows move silent across
the lopsided lawn with humps and hollows 
that bogs when you try to walk on it 
the poor soil in Leitrim also known as daub
makes lawns full of moss 
what my grandfather referred to as fog
makes up most of what is green 
on the wet field we call the lawn
far from green carpets 
rolled out like lino
between wooden fences
the lawns in Leitrim are rugged
meadows
thick with rushes and wildflowers 
If you let them 
Grow wild