Booterstown Station

Bray and Howth
Mean back and forth --
How well I know the way:

A month and eyes
Are veterans,
Which is to say they do not see

The stadium
At Lansdowne Road,
The tower at Sandymount,

Or the irony
Of stops
Named for Pearse and Connolly.

At my station,
The bright so bright
Off the whitewashed stone,

Just sitting alone
In contemplation
Of light and air

And Sheryl Crow,
The mind goes anywhere you let it;
I set it free --

Just over the wall is the sea. . . .

Quand La Crépuscule est l'Aube

The first evening of open windows --
conversations wafting up,
mingled in the dusk-blue haze
of pipe smoke. Laughs and whistles
wander in. The breeze.
A revving engine from a passing truck:
the mummy's tongueless moans.

You're going to rise any moment;
lying here now in the half-light
rehearsing the night,
scenes unfold with uncanny detail.
The air of the street is an ancient river,
its commerce a steady current
flowing through your dreams.

^

Biography

My poems have appeared in The Hudson Review, Press, Cimarron Review, The Recorder, and U.S. 1. In Ireland, I have had poetry published in The Shop, College Green, Fred Johnston's page Markings, and, of course, in Electric Acorn (#6.)