Poetry

Emeralds

         For Alan 

Battle hardened by Belfast

the bomb in Bogota did not keep me

from jewellery streets of La Candelaria.

It was between a cushion cut 

and two emerald teardrops. 

I chose the tears. 

The gold band fits me now.

My old wedding band

hangs on a chain round my neck.

There were bombs in London that day too.

Not that I noticed. Life blew apart 

right under my nose. 

I knew before the doctor’s face.

Before your rictus smile.

Perfectly still. Still warm.

I kissed the last of your warmth. 

There is nothing now

where you were. Nothing at all

but an old wedding band

and emerald tears 

on my right hand. 

Published in Washing Windows III: Irish Women Write Poetry available at https://booksupstairs.ie/product/washing-windows-iii-irish-women-write-poetry/

Poems from Lough Erne 

Tiraroe

Queen Anne lace froths the road edge 

buttercups spatter the meadows.

No trace remains of walls or hearth

yet roses bloom pink in roadside hedges

bearing witness to a dead gardener’s hands.

We mark the proper order of things. In March

And April, blackthorn bloom dusts bare branches

From May haw is glorious cream and pink,

beech no longer acid green 

but calmer now, older. 

June elderflowers 

loosen their creamy knots

Into lacy doilies of flower 

before  tightening again 

into Heaney’s dark saucers of shot.

At Tiraroe, a child again, I wade 

through lanes of briar and bees,

hear only a distant cow lowing, 

wish only that this could last forever. 

Inismacsaint I

The boat is moored. 

Dogs wake at dawn. 

Heaven happens.

Sun on water dapples the roof

with strands of golden light.

Swans sail and all is silver

light-dazzled water at the stern. 

Dearg dances among buttercups.

Golden flag lilies assemble, as if 

a garden planted by some kin to Monet.

Inishmacsaint ll

We have lost 

some things. 

They slipped away, 

never to be heard 

or seen again. 

Did Ninidh tell whether 

hunger for power 

or salvation 

drove him to sending men 

into this lush hinterland?

We will never know 

what moved him – 

whether to curb the pagan 

or save cabin dwellers 

from perdition. 

The stones are silent 

on the question.

The cross is solidly obstinate,

declining to lean 

one way or another. 

High above me, slots for beams. 

Stumps of walls that once upheld a roof

still hold niches for candles or statuary.

There, ancient hands rested in their youth.

I lay my hand on the ghost of theirs. 

Below on the slope 

like holy ensigns 

yellow flag irises

bridal bowers of haw bloom –

flowers for the ghostly altar –

leave the heart sore 

at what we lose constantly –

those chanting voices 

those tonsured heads 

now pared to bone and dust.

We are left with this silent cross 

these gaps for beams, 

these waiting blossoms

these pointless flags.