Friday, January 17, 2014

Banbridge Exodus

Awake
with allergies and chills,
my head swollen with Banbridge hedgerows.
A hoarse breeze chases through the open door,
cases and coats in a pile
exodus from Loft House to Oak.

I stroll to the farmhouse
with Jack and James,
a gentle slope underfoot.
The upward curve of a gnarled apple trunk
stands centre stage, 
devoid of fruit.
Leaning over the wooden fence
fallen pippins circle the yard,
rosy ripe.
A vegetable patch lies dormant
like a burial mound,
remnants of potato plants
smothered in weeds,
and I think of young hands
that once worked the soil,
raised a family
for emigrant lands.

The cock crows in the distance.
I look to five light hill
and sigh,

it is our last day already.

Sparkle of Wings




A flight of gulls
glide the rooftops
coasting towards the sea.
The train chugs deeper
into the city,
sparkles of ocean
ripple behind me,
purple mountains
fade in the distance.


Dark tunnels of Summer’s end
emerge to elderberry Autumn.
Auburn fields fly by
and I am surrounded by strangers,
knees touching knees,
my feet poised tippy-toes
ready to take flight
like the wings of birds.
I want to feel cool water
splash between my toes,
to return to the sea,
to the shine of Greystones,


away from the drab grey concrete
of the city.