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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.

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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.

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Biography