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.

Fancy Dress

It was dark

in O'Leary's

paved back yard. 

I was sporting

my togs, 

and legwarmers.

A length 

of wool secured

a notice

attempting to

explain the motive 

of my costume:

'FAME'.

I'm gonna live forever,

Baby, remember my name.

My sister then,

in furry mittens,

knitted layers,

the perfect kitten.

Hair contrived

to look like ears,

her sign

relaying the already clear:

'Puss In Boots'.

A recent recall

of her fluffy shoes

while I wore socks

revealed my mother's weak excuse;

Averil had thrown together

her own costume.

Flaherty's Lament

I went there myself

for the safety and health

of the VIPs.

But then I forgot

all the training I'd got

as we played the green.

It's all fine and well

for the plebeians

to be quarantined.

Covid-19 is much worse than a cold.

I mean, what's it to you,

you're the dirt on our shoes

after playing the course.

We shook sweaty palms

and gave zero damns

about feeling hoarse.

We shouted the odds,

just like demi-gods,

as we scoffed our roast.

Covid-19 is much worse than a cold.

We sneezed and we coughed

as we fought for the trough,

no heed of risk.

We guffawed and we pranced,

rubbed shoulders and danced,

'til our droplets mixed.

Not one thought for our families;

huddled up clammily

taking the piss.

Covid-19 is much worse than a cold.

We can feed them all day

with a PR parade

and a good old show.

We can keep a straight face

and repeatedly say

that together we row.

We don't give a feck

that we're on the top deck

and they're down below.

Covid-19 is much worse than a cold.

We kicked up our heels

though the many bereaved

couldn't mourne.

We played with the faith

of those who remained

all alone.

We laughed at the lives

that have been sacrificed

in nursing homes.

Covid-19 is much worse than a cold.

(The rhythm is based on Adelaide's Lament from Guys And Dolls. The refrain in that is 'A person might develop a cold' or slight variations on it.

Flaherty is a reference to John Flaherty, The Captain of the Guard in Leinster House, the person with responsibility for health and safety for the staff there.

As to the content I will just say #golfgate, and provide links, I am too disgusted to explain:

https://www.irishexaminer.com/news/arid-40035389.html 

https://www.irishexaminer.com/opinion/commentanalysis/arid-40036037.html)

Water Daughters

My girls have often paddled

in the River Mahon,

they can hear it roaring after heavy rain.

They have walked down to the bridge,

got too close to Crough Wood's ridges,

they have traced it from the falls and back again.

They have summered at Clonea

going day on day on day,

they have swum like they couldn't get enough.

They have scooped up black sea snails,

watched them make their little trails,

they have chased the herons to the sky above.

Where ancient ruins dwell

they have stood at holy wells,

they've learned about the rituals of old.

They have seen the coins thrown

to offer or atone,

they have climbed over the stile and steps of stone.

At the first beams of dawn

they have hiked to Coumshingaun,

they know the rocks and trees along the way.

They've breakfasted at water's edge,

walked the winding narrow ledges,

they have dipped their toes into the freezing lake.

(Published on Water Heritage Day, 23rd August 2020).

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. 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 a 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.)

Shoestring Haiku

Ready for action
Now she can tie her laces
Up another step.

(When my daughter, Sadie, learned to tie her shoelaces it made me think of all the things she doesn't need me to do for her anymore).

An Séasúr

Tá m'iníon bheag níos sine
beagnach críochnaithe deich mbliana.
Nuair a thóg mé abhaile í
bhí na sméara dubha lán 's aibí.

Tá na sméara dubha arís ann,
mar a bhí siad nuair a thosaíomar clann.
Cuimhním gach Lúnasa
an séasúr mo chéad naíonán nuabheirthe.

Silent Garden

A pale blue night
in the silent garden
brings my eye to heights
before silhouettes descend
to underscore eerie paths
back at ground level.
Dark corners reveal
what the daylight hides.
I act like I don't see
the cat at the far end,
we both decide
just to pretend
so as not to lose the way
of hard won time
at the end of the day.

For A Dime

The Child Of Pragues are staving off
the rain for the fêting of
the man who wants to build walls.
There are freshly stained benches
matching freshly stained fences,
and a stars-and-stripes merchandise stall.

Boards prepared for treading,
with the cast all at the ready
for the open air performance of all time.
But the theatre's so grand it blocks
the town's natural beauty spots
and all that could impress the cultured mind.
In one character's aside
he pompously denies
the threats to biodiversity.
In his sililoquy he notes
how easy 'tis for him to quote
that there simply is no emergency.
There's no hint of any sentiment
about the plight of emigrants,
our own on so many foreign shores.
And it seems that the decisions
rowing back on rights of women
are met with flags from a discount store.

At the interval a choir trills
of loving sinners not their sins,
of the land of the free and of the straight.
They sing of white supremacy
and strict religiosity;
the most important banners to yet wave.

The babies that were ripped
from their parents' breasts and hips
are scripted but as parasitic pests.
And above the stage fire
there's a gun that's been hired
to give the desired effect.
Above that again
are props that represent
trophy heads so cruelly obtained.
The backdrop seems to promote
entitled men who kill for sport
and entitled laws of an entitled reign.
In this scene there's a priest
with a set of heaven seats,
an indulgence he can grant for a dime.
No such guarantees
for his local parishees,
they'll have to serve their time.

The drinks and the wool
are being not expertly pulled
by the wolves decked out in sheep's robes.
The controlling of the strings
and the understudying
is by the emperor with no clothes.

(Early in June 2019, Donald Trump, and members of his family, paid a visit to Doonbeg in Co. Clare, Ireland. Having followed the coverage I can only say I felt embarrassed to be Irish when I saw how the people of Doonbeg turned into Trump sycophants. 
When interviewed the locals seemed unanimous that Donald Trump's hotel in Doonbeg brought so much employment to the area that they owed him the worship.
There are other businesses in Ireland that are foreign-owned. I know of one in particular in a village in Co. Waterford, which has regular visits from its French owners. And I know firsthand those visits don't send the whole village into hysterics.
I can understand the people of Doonbeg choosing not to stage protests, but I think they could have just gone about their business as usual.
And don't get me started on Fr. Joe Haugh promising the Trumps their places in heaven. In my opinion, this behaviour just cements Doonbeg in the Middle Ages.)

(Update: Mike Pence is due to spread more of the Trump infection by visiting Ireland next week, on 2nd September. The most polite thing I can say about that is, "yuck.")

(Another poem I wrote about Trump: Three Rings.)

A Life's Work

Hopes and fears
summed up
in a calcium
spiral cup.
A life's work
left to us
who inherit the earth.

Just one story
left by the snail,
that leaves only
beauty in its wake.
Slow and steady
from growth to empty,
life is art, art is plenty.

The Derry Air

So many sets
of many songs
of life and death
and rights and wrongs.
So many contests,
none so rare
as where commenced
The Derry Air.

How much has been
of much regret
of what they've seen
and can't forget?
So many people
not to be spared
to live and breathe
The Derry Air.

All that's done,
keeping time,
all that's sung
and made to rhyme.
So many dreams
like Creggan hares
still run free in
The Derry Air

(Journalist and author, Lyra McKee, was murdered in Creggan, Derry, Northern Ireland, on 18th April 2019, she was 29 years old. I had never heard of her before hearing of her murder and now I know she stood for everything that could be good about Ireland and Northern Ireland, freedom and equality.
The Derry Air is a tune used by a number of songs, for example 'Danny Boy'. Its origin is unclear but it is an internationally recognised tune. It is used as a sport's anthem by Northern Ireland when victorious at the Commonwealth Games.
The Creggan White Hare is a song about a hare that eludes hunters.)

R.I.P. Lyra McKee.

Dearest Uri Gellar

Dearest Uri Gellar,
in the stainless steel dimension,
I submit my open letter
to implore your intervention.
My husband talks all year
about the cutting of our grass,
and though that is extreme
the worst is yet to pass:
Sunny days will dawn,
and that means he will go
to his beloved lawn
to mow and mow and mow.

I've marked out the perimeter
with shiny polished ladles,
I've caged that bloody lawnmower
in a slotted spatula cradle,
I wait patiently every night
for my husband to sleep sound,
then I put teaspoons on his eyes...
So I've prepared the ground.
I've become a nervous wreck,
so please send me a sign
that you'll keep the grass in check
or control my husband's mind.

While you're at it can I have
a new car and clearer skin,
a conservatory, a ball of cash
and a marble-counter kitchen.
My daughters said to ask you
for a pony and a pool,
they've spent their pocket money
on a set of silver spoons.
Theresa May is not receiving,
so why not focus on my plea?
Or my husband will be leaving
every Summer for Tel Aviv.

(Just when I thought Brexit couldn't get any stranger, Uri Gellar published this open letter to Theresa May. Uri, they are beyond help, focus on me instead!)