From blight or the cold
it is withered

to nothing like a
pretty ornamental,

yet briefly, somehow
more alive.

The only secrets here
pay entry at the gate,

beech roots trip
us over-thinkers,

these rings of stony candour
keep nothing to themselves.

[Photo – Monumental by Ailsa Naumann]

Mallards root
beneath Prometheus,

detritus collects
on Grecian urns,

Nikē,
with a missing wing, leaps
into the void.

No pity for the mayfly,
Or envy for the evergreen,

No moon tonight,
Just drizzle in the street lamps,

Tea lights drift in the window,
And the crows have settled down.

The city is holding its breath,
Fingers drift over silk,

In the time between
The lightening and the thunder,

We conduct our secret affair.

Small graves, poor graves,
Lilies and the Virgin,

Poetry slips
From sagging limestone,

Willow seeds in the May breeze,
Glint, like lingering souls.

What the tide left behind;
barnacles and whale songs,
and a few of the best parts
of my father.

Dún Laoghaire is a stone
lifeboat that rises and falls,
but it’s a long town
for little legs,

so we made a giant
(you only get lighter)
and we made a slow-witted bear,
and we ran in the spray
as the shore gently sank.

Dún Laoghaire is a sand
castle, but the sea
doesn’t scare you.
As it washes away at your feet,
lighter and lighter you become.