Breakfast In Bed

He lies on his blanket
and I push my feet underneath.
I eat my breakfast in bed
and then it's time for second sleep.
When the children wake
the cat and I are fortified.
We do this every single day
because we've had worse morning times.
We've seen the other side,
we've been waited on.
We've had to smile and lie
through the burnt toast plastered in cinnamon
that even when eaten with the utmost care
spews crumbs on the quilt.
For me it's even more unfair
because the cat is not expected to eat it
eventhough I do not like toast either.
So, we have our breakfasts in secret
ready to truthfully attest
that we have already eaten.

The New Foal

When leaving the field
the children wanted to climb
over the gate, five feet
up then down the other side.
The eldest sprung over,
it was the first time that she
did not wait for her younger
sister to prove the possibility.
She had tall confidence.
The youngest, frustrated by her
shorter legs,
pointed out that we weren't
there to climb the gate,
but to see the new foal.
They felt they had a stake
after feeding the mare nextdoor
for the last few months.
We had seen the pair were safe and sound
so that was a good result.
Such things matter more in lockdown.

Stones And String And Shells

For all of our hiding the mess,
filling the recycling bin,
for all the preparation for our guests,
and all the anticipation,
Holly insisted on going kneeless
in her leggings that were beyond faded,
she refused a plaster for the bleeding
finger, in tissue and tape instead.
Her face glowed a green hue,
the result of two attempts at face-painting,
and twelve at removal.
And to finish the look the chunk of hair
she had cut out of her scalp, for the drama,
could not be persuaded to look unshorn.
Paddy and his sisters detailed the saga
of their aunt who doesn't like sweetcorn.

And now juggling shows and magic acts,
trading lego bits,
a day of churros, a slime-filled pack,
made-up jokes of hit-and-miss,
Sadie, Susie and Fiadh drawing,
cracking codes is all the rage,
plans to rap before the masses
may not play out so well on stage.

Post in myriad methods,
dispatches of suspense.
hand-delivered messages,
stones and string and shells.
Voice memos and a trail of notes
weave a tender spell.
Stamps and franks and envelopes
delight, bewitch, compel.

(In March 2019 we had a visit from another homeschool family, Ciara and her children, the Glaveys. We have had many meetings since then, and many lovely postal and electronic exchanges. A wonderful store of happy memories.
We miss Ciara and her children a lot. When I wrote this I had no idea that the COVID-19 emergency would see us all in lockdown).

Prospect Of Flowers

In the near-deserted petrol station
we took turns going to the hatch.
When the other car started
Oh, What A Night was blasted
into the emptiness.
My mind couldn't help but go
to nightclubs and dresses,
gyspy tops and purple eyeshadow,
and I thought I want my daughters
to have memories
that can be jarred like that;
back to make-up, and mistakes, and meeting,
and making promises, and keeping secrets,
expectations, phone calls, stops and starts,
high-heeled shoes, and higher boots, cash,
and waists, time for waiting and for chances,
time to kill,
and all the dancing.

The man with all the memories
joined the supermarket line
behind me
but kept shuffling back down the aisle.
We were all giving each other space,
but I swear he thought I had it.
He kept edging away then taking his place,
and I felt I was covered in lipstick kisses.
So, here he was back again,
the old man with his wheelie charge,
all he had was fabric softener
and a bunch of big bright purple flowers.
He was old in a raffle-ticket manner,
with dinner-dance authority.
You've your priorities straight, I observed,
in a world of fevered panic-sprees.
And then I regretted the word fevered,
and told him to go ahead of me.
Oh, no, he said, I'm waiting for half ten.
It's our anniversary,
I've a bottle of wine to get.
Herself likes a glass, I like it myself.

I feel suddenly young
unlike recently, when I became aunt to an adult.
I want to play The Weight and jump
with the crowd that has reclaimed the planet.
I want to stand on my old road, in line
as Ursula Cogan passes
in silence, and for the last time.
Oh, the nights we had in her kitchen.
While they stand I watch flashes of yellow,
a life of painted faces prevails
as the goldfinches pick at the heather,
alive and uncontained.
May we all have the prospect of flowers,
and if wine is the choice of your other
I hope you will queue until the tills allow it.
Let our children have the time
to join the world and live their lives
and be summoned by the sweet surprise
of a sometime scent, a sound, a sight.

March

Sometimes, I can only march.
Not physically.
In my head and in my heart
with mustered energy
I put one foot in front of the other,
and see myself gliding
effortlessly forward,
then walking, then striding,
like someone with purpose.
And though it is a set-up
I can make myself certain
for just long enough.

Visitors

The hot press
is full to the brim,
but the actual mess
is dealt with.
Clearing, cleaning,
debating of merits,
sorting and screening
by two young creatives.

Would we ever see our surfaces?
Would we ever clear the hall?
Can you imagine the state of us
if no-one ever called.

Sandwiches For Breakfast

Nora came like a beast of burden,
trafficking all manner of treats,
and sandwiches in the hundreds.
Juice, butter, milk and cream,
chocolate to feed the five thousand,
a piping bag set and her bichon frise.
If there was a herd of wild cows and
goats in the boot I'd have believed it.
Brown bread, candles, an extra cake,
certain items must have become rare
in her purchasing wake.
Certainly, someone somewhere
was out of crisps and popcorn,
and all disposable cups, bowls
and spoons were gone.
It was our first and last such occasion,
planned in lists and ticks
and passed, like all good celebrations,
in what seemed like minutes.
I heard the South African accent
and the Irish ones mingling,
so I knew who was present.
Aedan played the violin,
Oscar the baby flaunted his talents.
It was mostly a day of bad weather.
Sadie and Daniel, Holly and Ellen
decorated their cakes together.

The wet day of children in bare feet
went better than expected.
There were sandwiches for tea
and sandwiches for breakfast.

(We had birthday party to mark four birthdays in September 2019, my two and two of their friends marked their 2019 birthdays with their mutual friends).

Céline

My French pen-pal
sent me photos
and made me laugh
when she wrote,
"I am a guinea pig."
The letter bore an excellent
sketch, in coloured pencil,
to stoke my amusement.
I consider regularly
my never-met friend
who received from me
not one word of French.

(Having a pen-pal was all the rage when I was in primary school. Céline Tenace was the name of mine and she was a great correspondent. I wrote lots of letters, but I don't think I sent any photos, she sent me loads. I still know her then postal address off by heart).

Glad

I am glad this time of year,
I am glad it's nearly done,
I am glad to stop and breathe,
I am glad when drummers drum.
I am glad to have managed,
I am glad that we are here,
I am glad to look forward,
I am glad for a new year.

Though I am glad I'm slowing,
I'll be old in time,
but I'm sure it will be glowing
when I look back and revise.
I've been lucky in my life,
I married a good man,
I hope that luck holds tight
because I've got future plans.
I had a golden childhood
with parents that were great
if my children feel they had it good
then that will ice the cake.
When it's all gone
and I make known
a wish for younger days,
remind me kindly
I can't, quite rightly,
have it both the ways.

I was glad for every year,
I was glad that we were safe,
I was glad to live in peace,
I was glad when coursers came,
I was glad to have a home,
I was glad for mountains wide,
I was glad for children grown,
I was glad to be alive.

Midí Bhocht

Here is told a story sad,
of arán and im and, of course, ham.
A petrol station is the scene,
and the year is twenty and eighteen.

Ár mbanlaoch is homeward bound,
lena fear chéile and the clann.
It's late and she is well aware
her fridge and cupboards are wholly bare.

A twenty-four-hour service shop
draws our travellers for a stop.
Ham sandwiches are all they need
They are aon ní if not easily pleased.

Na seilfeanna trom le ceapairí:
Sicín tikka and jalfrezi,
egg and turkey and even jam,
but not a trace of a slice of ham.

This máthair then tells her fir
to order at the deli counter.
Alas, what's left is stinky tuna,
there's no-one serving, tá sé dúnta.

Back to the shop with our Midí,
she's hatched a plan, íosfaidh siad.
She buys a pack of unsmoked ham,
butter and a white sliced pan.

Starving now, payment taken,
they all collapse down at a table.
Construction starts to feed the troops,
only to be told they can't use their food:

"No chance, because of health and safety,
no way," the raised voice of the lady.
Agus so they sit there, blanky staring
at the béile they had been preparing.

On this mother, lán le dread
to a kiosk that fills rolls not bread.
As for liamhás, they do not sell it,
so buttered rolls were then requested.

Behind the desk the server swooned
Níor chuala sé riamh rud so rude.
How offensive to be asked for butter,
this customer must be a nutter.

By now the family are way past ocras,
Midí takes five rolls not stuffed up.
Seventeen euro paid that night
for a family dinner of arán bone dry.

And so to end this sorry scéal,
An almost unbelievable tale.
of bia so varied in one venue
that butter and ham is off the menu.

(You would be surprised at how little artistic licence was indulged in here. This poem is very closely based on a true story told to me by Midí Walsh.)