All The Same

Flatbed trailers clatter by,

silage through brambled ditch.

We watch out and identify

the haylage and the baleage.

A four-hour call of everything,

a fifteen-year rectifier.

Lola still threatening

the big move back to Glanmire.

All the time, all that changed

all the same, just re-arranged.

Silk Cut Purple stolen days

tossed and stored, just like the hay.

A Plea To The Cat

To be fair to the robin chicks,

the sparrows and the rabbit kits,

to the naked newborn crying shrewlets,

you were once a little kitten,

who took all the chances given

by visit upon visit to the vet.

Shots of antibiotics,

hoping and finger crossing,

care like you had never known.

Prescription narcotics

at costs verging on chronic,

so you might give this life a go.

Spare a thought for the unwary,

you are a cat who grew up safely,

favoured by some overloaded dice. 

Try to live life fairly,

pick on creatures not still babies.

But, all bets are off in terms of rats and mice.

The Jay

After so many local strolls,
only so many local ways,

the children had given up hope

of stumbling on anything rare.

Then all on one path

a red squirrel, a crossbill,

and a caroling blackcap

thrilling in tuneful trills.

The best of the show

at the end of the day

was the painted crow,

the colourful jay.

An Fhorrach Liath

Not Kealfoun or woody Crough,

Ashtown of the ash trees, Mahon of the coomb,

not Graiguerush, Kilclooney, 

Currabaha West or East

can hold a flame for that terrain

known as Furraleigh.

There are rabbits there, like everywhere,

like all the townlands 'round.

But grey ones without just can't compare 

to the ones within its bounds.

The grey place has big black rabbits,

uncloaked for all to see.

There they live, there they persist,

in exotic Furraleigh.

Man And Dog

The waiting-room man

told me about his fifteen-year-old

sheepdog, recently attacked

by a vicious roving canine.

I felt guilty as I sat

waiting for the pampered cat

to be boostered and elicit delight.

Across me to his man

leapt a glossy exuberant dog.

A whole animal

with an energy I coveted.

The plastic cone in place

now the only trace

of how that life had hung by a thread.

Imbolc

Rushes in February a reliable sight.

A flash of salutary mountain life.

Fold the first, then the second,

fold the third, a layer of blessing

if you like,

Hello, Mr. Magpie, and how's your wife?

Tradition only happens

when repetition matters.

The original fidget spinner,

an artwork without tape or scissors,

is sliding to reunion

in a natural conclusion.

The last rush bends,

the beginning meets the end.

The Shortest Day

Even the evergreens

look faded

before the shortest day is seen.

The fruit trees look like they've barely

ever glimpsed a sunny beam;

the branches bare suggest

they can't go on without the leaves,

and the robin's grubby breast

needs a good old-fashioned clean.

Everywhere everything's got tougher with the cold

The rabbits stare the cat down,

they've time to settle scores.

The heron in the clouds

blends its grey into the woe.

The flowers' stalks are rotten,

they've given up the ghost,

and all colour is forgotten

save for one unlearned rose.

Days stretch, shoots reach,

light drenches, life seeds,

time turns, things change,

a rose learns when to fade.

Flowers die just to strengthen

days darken just to lengthen.

Nature sleeps, insulates,

digs down deep to reinstate.

All energy returns within,

and the world still spins, still spins, still spins.

Billy

Of the seven-side
he's the one that I can set
in my mind as a child:

In short pants with pockets,

and a grin for every dawn,

a pride for all things moral,

a path-clearer for all,

especially the younger;

willing what he was refused

at those ages

on the nieces and nephews

and his next generations.

The roguery was never side-lined,

but duty was his first reserve.

He felt indulged by good times

though he and Teresa deserved

every good.

Billy McCarthy was a man of letters,

a writer of poems, songs, books.

We couldn't have asked for better.

He sang in every new year,

he spoke in prose and toasts,

and took the night in hand.

So, when the new year appears

be assured that he remains in his role,

that post is still manned.

(On 29/11/2020 my uncle, Billy McCarthy, passed away. He was 79 years old. He was extremely good to me and I'm certain the other 30-odd nieces and nephews would say the same.

Without making less of the tremendous loss it was for his wife, his children and their spouses, and his grandchildren it was a tough one to go through for me while we were county-bound. I'm only over the border from the family so I think it must have been harder again 

for my cousins in the UK and Australia. RIP Billy, 1941-2020).

Turn

Inside the line,

and the Ballade Pour Adeline.

Keeping time,

left hand for the melody.

Working week,

night times booked for ever.

Sun-roofed Fiesta Ghia

regardless of the weather.

Months in Melbourne,

Lebanese pizza.

Turn, turn, turn,

milk of magnesia.

Right hand off by heart,

steady on the pedal.

Begin again, another start,

a single cup and kettle.

Salmon cakes and dauphinoise,

sean-nós dance.

Piano Paul in Shamrock Lawn,

smoking ban.

Moving to a different key,

a semiquaver rest.

The Ballade Pour Adeline,

game and set.

Hedgehog

Walking on the stars 
of dew reflecting sky,
steps of spring offguard
led by second sight.

A weight of native senses
shrunken to the key,
scents of essence lend
to forward feel by feel.

Sleeping through the days
of skies deprived of stars,
alive to come what may,
evolved to not see far.