Only in Cork would the Station Master rush in,
Announcing “Anyone for the train for Mallow,”
“The bus is leaving now”.
Two girls kiss passionately sitting on the station seats,
While a woman in a woolly hat,
Standing behind,
Makes the sign of the cross repeatedly.
The apostolic sailors stand in a circle,
Kit Bags in the middle,
As they rotate in and out.
Searching for ***** while the train is delayed.  
And the pub still closed.
This is the start of my son’s stag,
A ritual passage to husband.
A beginning and ending of stories.

Autumn a variety of  gold colours,
Like a multi layered sponge cake
And candle soft birthday lights ,
That sing wind laden whispers .

Scolding when did we grow,
Too old to toss in the leaves .
Or wrap arms around a rooted tree,
Just to feel it move.

Or just stop and stare,
At dancing shadows,
Of a setting Sun,
And the creaking end of light.

Cool laden nights,
Of soft star lights.
Morning dripping windows,
And misty dappled light.

Our last comfort hush,
Before the torrid slush.
Autumn's sweet caress,
Before Winter's carcass.

Sunshine speckled bright on calm water,
A white deluge of hawthorn blossoms,
Pour on to the canal.
Fields of mono colour  yellow ****,
Bordered by green hedgerows.
Flash metal blue swallows skim the water.
Mother duck marshals her unruly ducklings,
To disappear into the green.
The reeds on both banks lean towards each other.
Armies of spears about to engage,
Commanded by a grey coated crane.
The sandy path stretches ahead alone.
I could be school walking,
Carelessly kicking stones with new shoes.

Two swans slide past.
Sailing dhows off Borneo.
Once one crossed fine on my port bow,
A manoeuvre around his stern.
From the bridge I watched,
A friendly wave as we passed.
Mariners from different worlds.
Dragonflies spin amongst the blooming Iris,
Lilly pads have surfaced,
With little yellow periscope flowers.
And a lone red poppy stands almost out of place,
Demanding  memory.

I peep through the stars,
Past the Moon to the Earth.
Where the shadows of the morning,
Define the boundary of the day.

Where the oceans swell,
Rocks the land to sleep.
Where the humans work,
To make the rot so cheap.

Where throw away things,
And know away rings,
Slips to tow away strings,
Of paper Mache Kings .

And the ocean’s lonely whale,
Sings his saddest song.
He is alone.  
Soon to be gone.

He sings of the reckless,
Of the planet helpless,
Of the air breathless,
And a future defenceless.

But then nobody is listening to a 52hertz whale.

I sleep less on vacation,
In case I waste them.
Everything in excess.
Even when she reins me in.
I have to make up for,
For every mundane Monday,
I’ve crossed the portals of labour.
Time to look at the world,
Not through a mobile phone.
No point in resting,
Burn as brightly as the sun.
There will be plenty of time to recover,
And stories to tell ....at work.
It is an enigma of life.

I was eleven when it happened.
Bartley the man of the house,
As  judge and jury,
Passed the sentence,
Condemning the mongrel.
Peter took him to the shore,
He licked his face.
Tail wagged with trust,
As he wrapped the bailing twine around his neck.

Carefully selecting two stones,
Amongst the many stones of Connemara.
He hitched them to the bailing twine,
Using a made up sacred knot,
To deliver death.

Lifting him in the cradle of his arms,
Which in time would hold his son.
At the sheltered place where the sand was pure white,
And the little waves caressed the shore,
The dried seaweed crunched underfoot,
Creating the pungent smell of sea,
He threw him in the deepest part.

He struggled.
Broke the surface once.
Gulped the air.
Fell back.
In the crystal clear water,
Legs threshing in the sea of life.
Then his mouth opened to the ocean.
Wild eyes.
The last ****.
And then stillness.
The stillness of a carcass anchored,
To the sandy bottom,
With twin stones  from a worn rocky field.

I lamented the cruelty of it all.
But then for all its beauty,
Connemara was a hard and cruel place.
The gallows audience left,
Let the tide to do its work.
Never to swim there again,
A place tainted by the evil,
Of the drowning of the dog.