Friday, January 17, 2014

Banbridge Exodus

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.

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