N

Nature

The gorse is burning freely,
unencumbered
by manmade boundaries.
Yes, in modern day Ireland,
there is still such a thing as wilderness,

those few peeked upon places
left unpoked and unpicked
by rigours of survival;
sure, tourism
is an industry unto itself.

A dream of horses, unreined,
untrained and unrefined
in the ways of man, stirrupless
and knowing no master
to give purchase to.

And forests that will never feel
the cruel shake of the axe
upon its bough, unfettered
tangles of tangential roots
stirring in the undergrowth.

If only for a day,
I could lay myself down
in such untouched luxury of heaven;
but I, being man, am a selfish creature
and would build fences
​to keep paradise to myself.
​

Wildflowers, Victoria Park

​Nighttime

Streetlights of distance
grace this pinprick landscape
on a black and blue night,
framed by my curtained window.

Rooftop silhouettes
overlap each other,
interrupted by telephone wires
streaking across the sky.

We mined the forests for timber
to build telegraph totem poles,
disturbing this once clean,
translucent view.

View from the Albert Bridge

---

Noise
after John Betjeman

Sure there’s nothing left in this ghost town,
houses bricked up and shops shut down,
with barely a poor sod around
in this bloody street.

The few who remain do not persist
in staying on Housing Executive lists;
it’s poverty that ties their wrists
to this bloody street.

Yet neighbours conspire to fleece
my mind of a required peace;
their boom-boom music will never cease
in this bloody street.

Still there’s kids kicking balls
against rusted shutters and graffited walls
despite shuffling ladies in knitted shawls
in this bloody street.

The ice cream van tries to sell pokes
but most of the kids would prefer a smoke,
childhood has become a sorry joke
in this bloody street.

So I’ll plug my ears and open tomes
to distraction in the form of poems;
I’ve signed the lease so here’s my home
in this bloody street.

---

Nomads

She used to live in seventy-three:  it’s torn down now
in the way of anonymity that these terraces succumb to.

When a house becomes a home, it’s cause to celebrate
with the smiling new residents resplendent in their snug,
regardless of responsibility, mortgage, well-being, risk.

But when a home becomes a house, there’s no ceremony,
only the handymen busy with their mortar and chipboard
plugging tell-tale holes of dead doors and powerless
     sockets,
concreting futures in, the bank felt through each window,
the locks a reminder that there is nowhere left to run,
nothing left to hold these families, now redundant shells,
just the neglect that weeds enjoy and graffitied
​     thresholds
bearing down on streets populated by the stray dogs
that know of no place to rest from their downfall.
​

Torn down house, The Village