Armed to the teeth
with half the years that I have now,
he sat on our goals.
Eating jelly babies.
The sugared flour
ruining his camouflage.
Dark hands proffering gelatine,
I took what he offered.
Rising, he kicked the ball back in,
rejoined his squad,
and the game continued.
From behind a twitchers curtain,
a loving call to which I ran
straight into the slap.
The child’s learning.
Do not take sweets from the enemy.
Born in 1972, Hugh was brought up between rural Wicklow and troubled Belfast. He is one of nine brothers, thirty six cousins and is a father of two. He has a deep love of both words and numbers, but as with his children, can never decide which he loves best.