He had been becoming older
I looked at him the same
his dark hair showed no signs of it
his beard had flecks of grey

I remember we would take refuge
under blankets
or a fort made of cushions
we'd stay up later than our mother knew

soon he would be the parent
being hidden from
when his little boy grows up
maybe he'll be a rogue, like you were

occupied in work
with the thought of coming home to be a father
it feels like we're living the future now -
he's married and so settled down

light blue sheets cover the weary mother
they catch my eye, I smile
because they match the cap and romper suit
of his new-born baby boy

I felt it first –
the day we wore waterproof boots in Amsterdam in August,
an unexpected storm did little to disturb us
I began to notice it then
the secret in this town that everyone, except me, knew about

Something that was hushed and passed around
under the blanket of moon
hidden away in a fiercely dark room of the Red Light
beneath maroon velvet curtains and leather-topped stools
or nestled beneath a bridge on the black canal past midnight.

I saw water dotted with blurred droplets, dark blue
the reflection of milky streetlights.
I pull the curtains in the mezzanine and the show begins
on the street below. I look out.

A curve of the lips
a gentle folding of the arms
a hand brushing against another

A secret never told
A city more alive than awake.

I left the coast
on a tiny blue and red rowing boat
I left my shoes on the pier
and jumped right in

I row to a beach and look along it
in moonlight
searching for those certain blue eyes
that I only half-remember
but all I see is strangers staring,
why are they sunbathing at night?

I give up, row back to land
the only sound is me pushing water
I struggle up the rungs of the ladder

lose my footing
fall
then suddenly
I don't know
whether I made it up the ladder at all

the corner shop near the railway station
opens now unlike when we came here first
when everything would shut on Sunday

the flea market in Mauerpark
is over-ridden with people selling kitsch
but we always go and we love it

everyone is so cool here that I think being cool
isn't hip anymore,
the street is a sea of hipsters in black

it's early Spring and there is still
no ferries on the Spree
but if you walk down the right street

you'll catch a couple of musicians
maybe a juggling act  
that blend in with graffiti and art

in the evening we'll go to the TV Tower
like tourists
pretend we can afford dinner in the revolving restaurant

two hundred and three metres high
and look over the cars on the road to Berlin-Mitte
that look like graceful glowing bugs below

we'll get have a cocktail with dinner in Caramba
in the square (just one)
and listen to light German jazz

with no need to worry
if the transport still runs at night

I walk on black crunchy sponge
barefoot, blank-minded, bedraggled

my backdrop is violent grey, green,
then white white white

wind whips my cheeks
then calms itself, calms me

I miss my sunshine on days like this
when the weather is rough

I appreciate it the most

for E.B.

I knew you were sad
the only way I could think to help 
was to bring you to the countryside
as far away as we could get 
from your home in the midlands
far from mine in the south west

we slammed the car doors when we got out
it was the loudest sound for miles
you looked up at the sky 
furrowed your brow at the stars
like someone had stolen them from you
we don't have stars like this in the city*

you didn't cry like I thought you would
I am sorry that someone has taken your stars
so here I am giving you mine
I wanted to tell you that if you're sad 
to look at the moon
but I don't think you see the moon
in the same way I do

These double doors are my eyes that see into peoples' lives
the end of a neon bright hallway, surgically clean
a lone traveller drags her life by the handle
here at an obscure hour while others sleep

I wonder if it's necessary that she leave?
She seems so removed from the furrowed brow
ticking watch business-man beside her
Watch the time. A missed flight. The world unfamiliar.

The agitated jitter of a lady puzzles me,
why does she cry? what is she leaving behind?
where will she go?
the airport departure lounge
purgatory
for a travelling soul.

I noticed her first
on the other side of the street
blonde, standing tall
an air of ease
engrossed in whatever she was talking about
with him.

I noticed him then
dark, broad
listening close
hanging on her words as if they were worth money
an expression of admiration
five o’clock shadow
furrowed brow.

I kept my eyes on the grey
of the ground. In the cold
I shuffled my scarf as if she might see it –
the place that he kissed me
above my collar bone, the curve of my neck
two nights ago.
They didn’t notice me at all.

I sit at a wooden bench
faded and etched with words of old love
who was here before me, and before them?

My eyes are thrown out to the sea
wrinkled blanket of green and blue.
That knot in my head has been soothed

by the salted air and the sun
and the delicate pebbles beneath my feet.
And I am grateful to be here.

There's something so beautiful
about this beach with the pulsing and hum
of a city so close

and everything that this city holds
that you, or I, don't know.

I

has she and the countryside
ever driven you so mad that
before you've even thought about it
your runners have laced themselves up

you're running in the dark
your feet beating the wet gravel road
you trip on a cattle grid
it is mostly your own fault
but you curse this ******* anyway

each note from the music in your ears
releases that pent-up frustration
until suddenly you drop
the gravel drags the skin off your knees

they bleed. You kneel there for a second
gasping
throw your head up to heaven
or the stars
or whatever is up there
you ask for an answer

but you get nothing.
her voice ringing you can't run from your problems
but here you are, once again
proving her wrong

II

The trees either side of the road you run on
are mangled and twisted
like a witch's fingers
they're judging you, towering over you

little girl go home to bed
don't you know it's dangerous
to be out on your own
on a boithrín this late?
this is how people get taken, or *****, or -

oh shut up!
you scream at them in the dark
words and anger drown your lungs
*you're not my ****** mother

grains of sand
between two slices of bread
blackberry juice boxes and orange dilute

a gloop of oily sun-block
a scent of petrol, coconut, ice-cream
and nothing but pastel blue

a canary yellow body-board
dropped in above my knees
my mother tugging it along

goading me towards the deep
I cling to it til she snaps it from me
I'm pulled underneath

limbs thrashing, lungs gasping
the shock of being afloat
was how I learned to swim in the Maharees

on sandy Fahamore
under Brandon mountain peak

I was sleeping in my dream the other night
maybe that's how I knew it was a dream
I rolled over and inhaled the smell of aftershave
on pillows and realized I was in your room
in the morning when we wake
your retriever bounds in the door
of the granny-flat, tail wagging, throws her weight
on top of me. my two favourite girls you say,
then you shower, mouthwash, shave,
make breakfast in your house near the sea
with nobody except your dog, an imaginary you,
and a little part of me.

When I wake I think I'm still there
but I'm not where I thought I was
my bedroom is cold and cramped in a city apartment,
a car alarm outside wakes me with a start
my neck is stiff from the singleness of this bed.
I sit up and can see myself in the reflection
of my mirror in the dark. Just me.
I roll over and ignore, just before I fall back asleep,
I wonder to myself if everyone has
that same split second of splendid
between consciousness and dreams
that everything is the way it used to be,
before reality come crashing in like a big, dangerous tidal wave.

I dread falling back asleep.

I pray for my younger days to be filled with adventure,
for my mind to be vast and generous
without any preconceptions or prejudice

I wish that some day my written words can stir
a non-believer,
a person who does not yet know
that poetry can change a person

I hope I will raise a family and in my own way
rectify the mistakes of my parents
but pass on the values they taught me

I hope to stray from anyone whose ideals I do not believe in,
I will be quiet when I'm correct
and I'll be silent when I'm wrong

I want to follow my gut instinct
the hollow feeling in my belly
that is there for a reason

I pray to be naive but vigilant

I pray to never be satisfied,
but to always be content.

I told my big brother that I hated him
because he threw sand in my face on the beach in Sydney
it stung and made me cry. He was seven, I was five.

Later we raced from the top of the beach where our mother lay
on a polka dot beach towel, sun-browned as a berry,
to the fringe of the shore where the sea foam was a bubble bath
–  the sky looks like a Greek flag, it’s so blue and white.
splashed me, shouting
–  do you still hate me?
I laughed
– yes!

When he rose in one big gulp from under the surface of water
his lips and raisin-wrinkled finger tips were tinged  blue
rosy streaks slashed across his belly
like he was ******* with poisoned red string.

I tugged on my mother’s sun dress, anxious
– Is he going to die?
– No it was only a baby one, it will do him no harm
–Am I allowed to see him?
–He’ll be out before the sun goes down
–Will you tell him I don’t hate him and it’s okay that he threw sand in my face?