is a field, stretched over red sandstone
overgrown with ferns, prickled with gorse
where my father dreamed a bungalow would sit
on which stands a peak-white mansion.
I painted its fence tudor black,
varnished floorboards I mop and wax.
is doorstep where an aged dog dozes,
rising on stiff legs at the sound of my car,
A view of a clothes line where tiny trousers kick
and frilly dresses swing. Where trumpet-like flowers,
resplendent with colour, peer in from window ledges.
is the waltz of garlic and onions
a six seater table, scuffed, with white rings.
The wail of a violin not quite in tune
the hum of a fridge while everyone sleeps.
Lost On The Kerry Way
We start our walk at Rossacussane, join
a narrow lane where wren and finch chirp,
shaded from the sun’s rays by beech, birch.
On exposed hills we follow signs through
struggling lowland grasses speckled with wildflowers:
cowslip, purple star-flowers like edelweiss.
Sheep and horses graze, ignore us as we
snake up and down hill after hill, over
and over again. We take in the azure bay below
cushioned by mountains till the piercing sun
cracks our lips.
Hours later, bellies roar with hunger.
Highland ghosts of bogcotton quiver, we stumble
past the charred remains of gorse as ancient rocks
watch us with a wary eye. We are haunted
by the leafless skeleton of a wind-burnt rhododendron,
crimson flower-clusters hanging from its limbs,
startled by a pheasant bouncing from the scrub.
Hearts leap as we see the church spire, relieved
that town is within reach. We clamber across
the last rocky summits, begin the breathtaking
descent into the chocolate box town. At its fringes
foxglove dressed in purple stands dignified while
ragged robin flaps torn petals. With wiry hair, dirt-crusted
toes, we glow with sunburn, two tramps just in time
for a gourmet dinner, long-awaited chilled sauvignon blanc.