FALLING APPLES
I’m up to my eyes in apples,
Lizard like upon the trunk;
Heavy branches to be shaken,
Fishing for the furthest fruit:
Ripened red and yellow faces
High on top beneath the sun.
I’m in a ball filled bouncer
But I’m careful not to fall-
Just now I ducked my head
From flying fruit going down
To hop like heavy hailstones
In a shower upon the ground.
DIVERSION
Sonny O’Dea, our Master’s mate,
Closed the gate and lifted the latch
Of the door painted in national green
After he tied up his jennet outside.
His brown hat had no ribbon band,
It was turned up here and up there.
It sheltered him in the wind and rain
And shaded his face from the sun.
His coat, a corn bag from his barn,
Was fastened with a single horse nail;
His step so slow had a ring of steel
From the tips of his hobnailed boots.
Over the road we could see him come
And Sonny O’Dea didn’t have to knock;
It was just our grammatical grilling time-
That blasted blitz for us at two o’clock!
So with one voice we sang in chorus
‘Tá fear sa halla’ (‘A man in the hall’);
We knew we were in for some fun
As the Master would answer the call.
Sonny spoke out like an Indian chief,
The Master’s voice was always even-
Whatever was said we hadn’t a care
Once they had a long conversation;
That would help at the end of the day
To shorten a little our long education.
THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN SPEAKING
‘This is your Captain speaking’
The voice ground out with gravity.
I suddenly sat up straight in my seat
To hear what was the calamity!
Yes, we had ascended successfully,
Levelled off and headed for London-
But somehow we were lacking in thrust
So my feelings were somewhat deflated.
‘We have been told by Shannon control
That a hatch has been left open’-
‘Oh Lord our God’ I said ‘What?’
And he added ‘There’s no safety risk
At all and we are returning to Shannon.’
As he turned around there wasn’t a sound
Nor a sight of our pretty hostesses.
I thought of the news on Five Seven Live
And cast the bad thought from my mind;
After all of this crisis without any crash
We had our hatch shut up in Shannon.
Beside me sat a young businessman
With a hint of a beard of maturity
Who had been asleep quite oblivious,
But on the second time round
He awoke back on the ground
And I told him of all that had happened.
Needless to say he was taken aback,
Thinking he was landed safely in England;
So we laughed at our lot as airborne we got
While the Captain made up for delaying us!
And all of a sudden the staff reappeared
To serve tea from behind the drawn curtains
And instead of landing in London at five
We were happy we landed at half past, alive!
OVERHEARD
‘I should have known
He’d want to get up on the wall.
Hold on to him that’s all-
And don’t let him fall!’
CARNIVAL
The half moon begins its harvest climb;
This night is sure to be as bright as day.
The turf fires kindle and flame into life
In the hillside homes this evening time.
From across the Racecourse and the river
Carnival sounds drift in the still cool air
And rainbow rows of festive lights in town
Send up a crowning glow that spreads
And floods the gently sloping fields afar.
LAKE TE ANAU
Stopping at Lake Te Anau
Felt like we had stumbled
On some masterpiece of art
Then made a part of it;
To be of no other tableau-
Breathless at the stillness
Of lake water pastel blue:
Nature’s ancient mirror
For the clearest of a sky
And Keplar snowy crested-
True reflections in Te Anau.
SIESTA
Sliabh Mish in Summer:
Her lows and highs beyond
The fields that lie
Beside Tralee at Boherbee,
Where in the sun
In front of Dunnes
The shoppers
Filter in and out;
While sleepy breezes
Find their way
From Tralee Bay
To fill the afternoon
With sea wine from
The Maharees;
Or to have sweet reveries
Of sharing a siesta
With that mountain,
Guardian of the town,
Beneath its eiderdown
Spun from clouds
In bridal white that lie
On curves and crests
Along a blue horizon
Of a day in time.
SKYLIGHT TO THE STARS
Skylight of pine like a picture frame,
Only eye of my sleepless musing;
What strikes me at this hour of dreams
Is the single star that looks at me
From the depths of our lovely universe.
I’d love to know if the builders charged
For your beacon light so gifted;
As I lie on my back my thoughts of black
Slip away with the blind I’ve lifted.
Now I think of today by the River Rhone
And hills so high with slopes of trees
Where hosts of village houses stand;
St. Galmier, its square with cafés there;
A fruit shop of reds and yellows;
A church of stone standing all alone,
Its walls being cleansed by craftsmen.
While alas I lie and look on high
And muse on the higher heavens
I have found it wise to think of time
For the dawn has stolen my star away
And all that’s left to me today
Is a frame with a bright blue canvas.
THISTLEDOWN
Thistledown: flight so light,
Floating summertime on river air;
On the bank first kisses.
ALLURING
A woman’s smile can haul her sailor boy ashore;
With just a single kiss she lures him on her line.
OUTSIDE
Afterwards
Under the eiderdown
We lie inert;
Alert to night winds
That hurry up the hill,
Playing ‘hide and seek’
Among the trees;
Lulling us to sleep,
Sure of ourselves
And the only sounds
Outside.
SOLITUDE
Aux revoirs à la porte ouverte
Un très beau Dimanche en été;
Dans le ciel un avion brillait;
Chez moi c’est très solitaire.
En ville à l’
heure de la messe-
Le secret de la paix à la Place;
Personne ne bougait, ne parlait;
Avec le journal je suis rentré.
Mes chiens m’ont bien reçus;
Au téléphone un appel amical-
Voilà ma fille qui s’est levée!
Encore tout a bien tourné.
Encore une fois je pouvais voir
La beauté de montagnes au loin;
Comme un train d’un tunnel noir,
Je suis rentré dans la lumière.
ALONE
Goodbyes at the open front door
On a Sunday morning in summer.
An aeroplane shines in the sun;
In the town it’s midday mass time-
A time and a place to be peaceful,
A short truce in the struggle of life;
I purchase the Sunday Press paper.
I’m welcomed in home by the dogs
And a friendly telephone caller;
My daughter awakes at it’s ringing,
Once again my world is revolving.
I am able to admire the day’s beauty-
The far distant mountains before me;
Like a train from a tunnel emerging
I have returned to the lap of creation.
STEPPING AWAY
Using pints for punctuation,
Farming friends around him,
Holding earthy conversations:
Man to man discussions
On someone’s lock of cattle
Or a lovely score of lambs.
Turning his back to the bar,
Measuring his every step,
He employs a walking stick
To aid his disappearance;
Exiting black swing doors,
Writing off another night.
In good humour going home,
Unconscious of the loneliness
Of the silent sleeping village,
He sits into my waiting car
And we leave the streetlamps
To the phantoms of the night.
SWAN DELIGHT
These are the dark days of the winter, short and stormy;
The wind and the driving rain rebuff the flowerless furze.
The sycamore and the beech that were so fair out there
Stand bleakly staring into space, uncertain of their fate.
And I am thinking of the swans in the bog of Ballinagare.
They have never left my mind, come rain or come shine,
Ever since three cygnets grey swooped above my head,
Over the rusty metal bridge that spanned the broad river.
All three flew low and wide around and then they landed
Downstream with muffled whoops of cygnet swan delight;
Heads held in the air, graceful as the Viking ships at sea;
They were close to me where I was the undercover man.
My water skiers with loud whirring of their musical wings
Skimmed along the surface of the river to westwards fly
To their chosen spot where they could swim alone, apart;
At that I felt a touch of loss to think of mine gone far away.
But one evening from the road I saw them all assembled,
All a gaggle in a green bog field beside the flowing river;
Seeing five more fly in to land the rest below paraded,
Their chanting windpipes all in tune in a place deserted.
WHERE HEMISPHERES MEET
Self-contained in self drive cars:
Families, my daughter’s and my own,
In a blue Focus and a light blue Fiesta,
Driving always in formation-
Our sights were set on Milford Sound.
We stopped at times by chasms.
Stunned by haloed mountain peaks;
Boundless acres of countless sheep.
Eating at a roadhouse at a cross
Where the chimney with its log fire
Filled us with New Zealand lore.
Now the evening’s endless mountains
Throw the cloak of twilight round us.
Daughters in exile in Australia
Travel with us on the road tonight;
So far, so long, now all together,
Hemispheres had found each other.
OASIS
The warm balm of the velvet breeze
Wafts around the bungalow gable
By the sheltering sycamore trees,
Caressing my face at the table.
Soft stepping, white bibbed and black,
The cat settles down in the sun
And on the leaves he lays on his back,
Russet bed by the autumn spun.
The simple song of the robin red,
Plain chant of the solo singer;
Stepladder up to the hedge ahead,
Standing by for a tasty trimmer.
Black and white and quick and low,
Magpies cruise with crackling chatter;
The cars gone by on the road below
Restoring the peace that they shatter.
SOFT TRAP
A Painted Lady butterfly
Delays delicately nearby,
Her freshness never old.
Wings of words unspoken,
I’m weightless in her space.
Then a ripe red apple falls
With a faint silent sob,
Soft trapping me in sunshine
In the orchard by the stream.
At last I have to walk away
But I leave my pain behind me
Where quietly clamour now
The sniping stinging wasps.
SOUND EFFECTS
In South Kerry from a narrow mountain road
That hung above the farmsteads by the sea
I saw a cattle run and heard the cuckoo call:
A sudden motion towards the surging ocean
And a voice saying it’s summer time again.
There were roadworks at Coomakista Pass
Making wide the wayward route to Waterville:
Giant kango hammers cracking roadside rock
At Caherdaniel; machines to move mountains.
In the Golden Cove behind the Sneem Hotel
Six strong oarsmen dipped their oars as one,
Striking the evening silence with an even beat
As slowly a lonesome swan took centre stage,
Cruising at a steady pace on waters of ebony.
HER APOLLO
His characters all came alive,
Stepping on the stage of time:
The playwright and the poet,
Words flowing like good wine.
On the mall of the main street
His statue stands forever,
Cap in hand and in his stride-
A man for walking by the river.
Passing the Apollo of her dreams
His widow softly touched him then,
Knowing that unseen angels
Were taking gentle care of him.
OUR LAUGHING CAVALIER
Johnny our postman flew off on his bike
Across the bridge on the river low down;
As alive as a hare just sprung from his lair,
He was primed up for doing his rounds.
As merry a postman as ever I have seen
Who possessed the great gift of the gab,
Though we lived at the end of his daily run
Yet he’d still be as fresh and as full of fun
As when he threw his bag up on his back
At the door of his little thatched cottage,
That was perched on the side of the street-
The main road that ran through the village.
He’d whistle and sing as if he were king
And his heart was so light on his bicycle;
He’d sit up like he owned half of Ireland.
At the time there were men in their fields
Who work
ed with ponies and horses.
They’d all say “The postman! ” then wave
And exchange a few words on the weather;
If he had his way it wouldn’t rain ever.
All the news still unread in his satchel,
As he pedalled and freewheeled ahead,
Would not be as bad as anyone thought.
He hoped for them all ’t would be good.
Our laughing cavalier, down off his bike,
Would half dance in our path to the door,
Deliver the mail to my mother awaiting
Then maybe he’d waltz ’round the foor.
As he talked he would look at you straight
And you saw that his eyes were so brown,
Filled with laughter and lovable roguery-
He helped you forget the day’s drudgery.
RIVER FIELDS
There is something in the setting sun
That speaks to me of death and darkness
As the dying moments of another day
Are suffused with a splash of crimson.
Now the surface of the Feale turns red
By Martin Daly’s low lying river fields,
Near the large crucifix at Convent Cross.
THE BALLAD OF BRYAN MCMAHON
It was on the eve of Valentine
In the year of ninety eight
That the Master’s name so resonant
Was marked absent on the slate;
So delicate were the daffodils
After days of winter strife
When the soul of Bryan Mac Mahon
Went through the Gap of Life.
So silent now the river Feale,
They had shared the sun together,
For the Master of all masters
Has called Bryan to Him forever;
Our nation maker is close to God
Whose gifts he’ll hand us down:
Like words to lips and songs to sing
In his native Kerry town.