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.

(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.