Sample Writings

Lost in the Crowd

On weekday mornings
she joins the cortège
of cadavre-filled cars,
a procession made up of bodies
still not awake but silently
dreading another work day.
Car light-eyes illuminate the dark
as they slowly stop-start,
winding their way to the
mass grave office where
nobody feels alive.

On Saturdays she takes
the train to town, passes
the hours window-shopping,
being jostled by crowds.
Sipping coffee she watches
the multicoloured plaid
of aimless browsers weaving
through focused shopaholics.

On Sundays, seated on a hard
pew, her eyes digest couples
shepherding children into Saint Brigid’s
then home for Sunday dinner.
From her flat she sees
driveways belch out cars,
congest the streets, as families gather
for Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding,
more appetising than her microwaved
meal for one.

Fruit and Veg

Tiles shone, chrome twinkled
As I stacked shelves, faced tins.
Job done, I’d sidle towards
fruit and veg, make domes
of waxy lemons, oranges
pyramids of Granny Smiths.
Intoxicated by the aroma
of ripe melons, plump grapes
bursting with promise. Mag said
I’d be found dead there.

After school drop-off
shopping basket swinging
from my arm, Mag demonstrates
a pineapple’s succulence
by plucking a leaf from its crown.

Sunday Lie-in

Awareness bubbles
as consciousness slowly surfaces.
I roll into you, your heat
eyes stuck closed.
Your hand glides
over my hair
fingertips trace the ridge
of my cheekbone
the dip before my lips
puff up. I blissfully shut out
the clock’s soft tick
the honey’d haze
of early morning sunlight
drift away into ethereal sleep.


The aroma of freshly cut grass
fingers its way in, freshens
my room. A soft breeze flaps
the blind as I listen to
the lawnmower’s buzz.
Beidh aonach amárach pipes
up the stairs as your fingers rise
fall like typewriter keys.

Ten tomorrow, you are too old
for balloons, party games.
Cinema and pizza your diktat.
I listen to you breathe
a swirl of notes, hear you growing
into your roots.

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