'Does the sower
Sow by night,
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?' — William Blake

On this night
black as innocence lost
buses, taxis, aeroplanes
plough with broken furrows
the fields of Castleknock, Dublin 15
after which the wind from a bottomless bag
disperses the tears
of every parent, shed
to fall on disturbed tarmac.

Before the rays of the sun
make pale the moon
and extinguish street light:
with ******’s needle
and rotting reed, blot
in moon black blood
this balcony where I make myself scarecrow
keeping a watchful eye
for all the children taken.

It's half past eight. In this housing estate,
Dooradoyle, Limerick cars are stirring, going to work.
God I'm so ******. Spent the night watching
9/11 conspiracies, South Park and Family Guy.
I sent you a txt at five past one.
Wish I could have whispered it into your ear.
I know it will be hours before you wake.

The thing with having small arms —
it drives you to reach the top shelf.
The moment you were born, Charlie Lennon
composed The Dawn Chorus
to signal a day; glorious,
still far from over.  

When I stay over, you’re 9ft away —
alone in another room. May as well
be a mile past the edge of the universe.
You give me your jumper to take to bed,
to touch, to smell. And again,
as I am leaving home; as now —
sober, on a bus back to Galway. It's raining,
but I'm in love with you.

When I am not with you
I stand in the rain, alone by the lake.
Waiting for any swan to come into land
and bang — pellets penetrate plumage.

In my cave the swan is gutted,
everything, bar bone, is taken out,
piled in bowls, eaten raw.
I save the blood.

I use the blood
to write poetry books.
When I fail, crawl into a ball
and cry.

Leaving the swan, the maggots
make for my eyes, for my tears.
On their way, they whisper in my ear —
One day we will eat you too.

Like the swan, I suffer
when I am not with you.

Next week, I’ll be 61 years  
working the same 93 acres.  
The furthest field back  
and the 2 joining Peter Burke’s
always been meadows.  
Since before my time —
today it takes just 4 hours  
to cut, bale and wrap.

Dad and the men wouldn’t’ve  
half the first headland cut in that length.
I’d go back with Mom,  
with tea and sandwiches;  
brown bread and something  sweet.  
No more higher than the handle of the scythe —
I would try to swing.  
Nearly took my leg off the first time.  

When it was done, all saved
that was my favourite bit.
There’d be a gathering in the house.
Food, porter … the craic.  
Someone would pull out a fiddle  
or a tin whistle, the women would dance  
it was beautiful — meaningful.  
Friends, neighbours. Thankful.  
The closest thing to expressing our feelings.  
And us kids allowed to stay up late,  
what a treat; a very rich treat.

I never did grow tall enough  
to wield the scythe.  
When it was my turn,  
machines had been invented.  
Lucky I was told I was.
They lightened the work  
and lessened the men.  
Horse followed horsepower.
Bigger, heavier.
But there was time for tea,  
there’s always time for tea.  

The scythes rotted;  
the horses rotted;  
kids flown into the city;
neighbours dead, don’t care or are foreign.
It’s just one man now doing all the work.  
One man called John Deere
who has no time for tea.

I’ve got an axe to grind, so am sharpening it
on the wheel of my wit — hey;
blunt-force-trauma’s enough to a **** a man.

Who, by right, should’ve been an abortion.
I’d unflinchingly watch dogs
rip him to pieces.

In-fact I’d whistle
and call more dogs. But I
wouldn’t be the only one doing this.

If we were in space
I’d smash his visor
then ****** when he pops.

If this were to happen
it would, just mean that
I got there first.

If he were dangling off a cliff
to the bottom I would race
inflate a mattress to safely catch.

But I’d fill it with rocks and knives  
just to be sure.
To be sure, to be sure!

It’s cheerful to know there’s a generation
who only know: The Men in Black as
Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones.

My mother worked on the radio
she’d give advice, answered agony letters.
But her generation lived in the time of the Dictators,
so powerless and chicken-chick was the Law to stop
the Men in Black: Roman Catholic priests to be exact.
And they told how it was to be … according
to them ******* were forbidden
so she had to hand me, her daughter Valeria
to a nurse, a nun: who’d as much contempt
for my mother, as the shame
that was waiting at home.

Then she very slowly drowned in a fire
of smoke and whiskey.
You just can’t take a child from someone
Not like that. Not because …
someone who once wrote
that someone might’ve once said
suffer the little children.

If it had been any other Corporation —
nailed to the ******* cross.

Asleep in her bed
Gran's waiting for a kiss;
not from Prince Charming.