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.

(Explanation: 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.

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.

(Explanation: 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.

(Explanation: 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.