swirls of pollyfilla
with the texture of halva
and osais, the green stuff
florists stick flowers into,
birds wouldn't nest in it.

It is far from ******* ordinary
the music,the traffic
this full moon.

a Moroccan lamp hangs
like a bee's eye glowing,
Kate Bush adds honey
I have red finger nails,toes
black net stockings
and four posts, I dance around
this large room alone
no one knows this shape
and shake, of my ***, I pull cards
Acceptance, Divine Order
Magdalene, Love
a foamy green yoga mat
is my runway strip for energy
the rest is used for mopping,
sweeping,grinding floors.

we walked together
for a while

himself around eighty
on bad legs

me, twenty seven
wearing cheap red
shoes

both of us, precarious 
on wet autumn
leaves.

I tried
to throw it out
along with the bubbles,
the yellow duck,
and the knickers the dog crudely
chewed

pushed it amongst silled plants,
now it stands,
between Thick Cut Marmalade
and Chlorine Free Baking Cups
a token, painted green with white
Maori dots, symbolizing
the small dreamings
of a tortoise
                                                    
and since this house
is my body, see
how I have placed you
in the kitchen

and I cannot get beyond,
the simple meaning,
of daily needing
love like water, air

and how I don't seek
to see it fully
yet often find myself
checking if its there.

The story of you is a picture to my ears
of you being a bit of a pup,
wearing headphones to mass,
driving the same priest mad
who later showed you how to play a bodhran in an empty church.

Imagine the happening of it
of you, standing in an empty field
looking at a well, wondering hard
how the water got to be there
or your eyes circling wider
in memory of seeing
and touching girls yonis for the first time
                              
you'd say “Ah Mam,
I don't want to go to Greaney's for shoes”
was Mr Greaney's dark and cold
with shelves packed thick with damp boxes,
white labels marking styles and sizes,
N for navy, B for brown, brogues, sensible,
that would have all the boys in school laughin at ya,
your ma pressin ******* the toes
to make sure you've a bit of room to grow into?

you talked to me late at night,
of young ones and of passing the seed.

in the black swamps of Coill Bhearna
dead trees wore tights of patterned ivy

and in a passing spotlight of sun,
some moss, gave an outstanding performance.