Tuesday, 25 July 2017

POTATOES

POTATOES

I can smell the sweet potato peel
Upon my skin - and I visualize walking
Amongst the summer rows.

I pick over the box of earthy potatoes.
When I pull one that is perfect
I turn it in my hand like a gold nugget -
Buried in my memory - a charm.

I peel back happiness from the soil,
Memories drop into a watery bowl;
The day we planted them - sowing
Love which had lain on the edges.

Uncertain, I nearly threw love out
With un-seeded tubers; to decay in hedges.
Instead I wrapped them and stored them
In a cold shed - for spring planting;

I can already see your face shining pride
At flowering drills; you stand with a wide-stance;
The posture of the accomplished soul - your eyes,
Stare lovingly at each planted offering.





Monday, 26 June 2017

KILLRUDDERY

KILLRUDDERY

Beneath the elders
Where bumble bees
Lose themselves
In flowering thyme;

I lie down in dew-soaked ease.

And dog-rose is the scent
That makes my spirits rise
In the kingdom of the low –
Flying bird.

I take comfort on the mossy soil;
  
Last years leaves sweet;
Damp In the wing-tipped breeze,
To ease my mind and soothe
My brow;

In dappled light my speckled thoughts take flight…

And the worm-seeking thrushes
Make a rustling sound
Where life goes on
Underground –


Beneath the earthy mound.


Saturday, 27 May 2017

TAIGH NA GAREACH

TAIGH NA GAREACH

Many ‘Murphy’s’ in the area...
So nick- names slipped off the tongue;
His suited a way of believing in
Fairies where he fished off the rock
At Lough Currane. ‘Taigh na gareach’,
‘Tag of the Fairies’.

Not one could convince him to change
His belief in ‘magic & luck’,
Not even his brother ‘Cod Murphy’,
So where he fished off a rock in
The mountains, the name
 ‘Taigh na gareach’ stuck...


https://issuu.com/threedropsfromacauldron/docs/three_drops_from_a_cauldron_-_issue_b80d705046391e


Thursday, 20 April 2017

PAPER

PAPER

I wake and reach for paper,

From wood I craft
An earthy poem
A path to pulse the present.

The pen rolls contours the land
In my hand - the history
Of yesterday, tomorrow,
In the face of adversity
It flys like leaves.

As solid as wood, dig into it;
Writing an instinct
A universal gift
Grounded and deep grained.



Saturday, 18 March 2017

MOURNING

MOURNING

I think, it was the winding lane that did it – the one
Lined with daffodils: Wordsworth would have approved.
I had my own poem set out – open like the cupped

Yellow offerings; perhaps I’d have added in: Sun-trapped
Stone steps - coming down from the white-washed loft;

And what the house held:
The bed-rails, the heavy wardrobe and ancient drawers,
The lace of the curtains, and the old dresser,
A range to help a kettle sing, and streams,

Of light across the lanolin floor – peeping
From wide window-sills, with hills outside.

Now, I have to content myself with the fact that - we have
A bigger vegetable patch here, than the little fenced one
At the back of the cottage we nearly had –
I knew the man who lived there once.



 


Thursday, 2 March 2017

Wednesday, 8 February 2017

THE VOYAGING VESSEL

THE VOYAGING VESSEL

Even as the tides subside
I glide the horizon like a black-
Backed gull.
Waves of awe unleash
A various world of

Words I find deep in the folds
Of a sail-weathered wind
Freedom
Like golden grain in my hand
Rolling the currents to fly
Against a limitless sky…

I harbour the salt and the scent
From bays of seafaring faces,
The sea of pearled possibilities
Where beneath the rim and the rhythm
Coral, shells and speckled fish
Water me with colour.



https://tintean.org.au/2017/02/06/poetry-13/