Don't mind me...
I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....
....
dawdling
laying here - stroking your back - as you sprawl snoozing
it strikes me how much you have grown
though you are still small enough to ride mahout on my shoulders
and tug reluctant on my arm when shopping
your face when sleeping carries those babyish curves
you pull the heart at the smallness of perfect
but you are definitely growing
just as I get used to the slim child
you grow chubby
branch out and up
and a new slim child appears
you tell me that one day you will be taller than the sky
I can wait
for I love the smell of your hair
....
potatoes
you shout above the din
tumbling stone
the wire fleshcuts
your hand
from thumb to pointer knuckle
twistingtwistingtwisting
the bag is tied
and stacked
crank of belt
thunder of stones
flashing picking hands
thunder of stones
crank of belt
shout for a rat
backhanded through the flap
twistingwistingtwisting
beat down the sun
thunder the stones
suck the blood
clench paper sack
twistingtwistingtwisting
you pull the hook
through the loop
bind the wire
stack the sack
get ahead of the work
take a breather
sucking the blood
smile at the farmer
wave friendly like
for the four miles an hour
thunder the stones
crank the belt
throw out the frogs
with the back of your hand
clench the sack
twistingtwistingtwisting
pull the wire
stack the sack
a ton and half a row
you lay out on the pallet
watch the picking women wipe their brows
as you swing over the ditch
sun beats down
belt cranks
at the shout - the belt engages
off you again
a ton and half
a row
but at least you ain't picking stones
....
easter
between day and night
we dip our toes in clouds
pull the sun from hiding
put it in a pocket
warm our fingers
for here
above the normatives of time
above the rain
among the purple stirring heather
where all light slumbers
for here
we stretch out arms
in celebration
....
bushmills, though I prefer jameson
I used to go out drinking with an irishman
and play paul mccartney in ira pubs
'are you english or an englishman' they'd ask me
what the fuck
can't I tap my foot to the fiddle like you
we'd have a few - and when he forgot he was born in hull
he'd get all sentimental for danny bouy
and draw on a beermat his lines of advance
great sweeping lines they were
up they'd come from donegal, monaghan
sligo and leith
dancing jigs like on the somme
and I used to say to him 'oo you foiten'
he din't know, or din't care
stick a bomb in bin, blow up a kiddie
what the fuck - we'd had a feu
he's been to confession
I've had a wank
and the cat still visits the queen
....
before
england beautiful runic ing
how green you must have been
to those woodsman of germany
before the angles and crosses -
your dark tracked forests
pilgrim ways - on a journey
from the sun to the sea
and the mist and the marsh
and the upturned tree -
at times you resonate still -
still can the pulse be felt
on a clear cloudless evening
as the rookeries cease their squabble
stars rise from the turquoise waves
....
evensong
the town hall clock strikes maunful tone
tea washed and dried
she leaves her home
this time of day she calls her own
as she makes her way to evensong
those who live their life by reasons
will not comprehend her love of seasons
nor the smallness of her hoped for pleadings
as she slips away for evensong
she goes not for god or wealth
not even really for herself
but to hear the birds in full breath
in glorious joyous evensong
....
peace:)
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