In this room where I grew up
calves’ roars creep in the open window.
Day dream on the bed,
mirror reflects in Autumn:
the time my notebook fills,
floods like the land.

As I check my email from my phone,
two daddy long legs mate
on the discoloured floorboards–
no business of mine
enter my password–
no business of theirs.

The dog suddenly barks, the front door opens,
two old babes shuffle in to visit Gran
in the same spot she’s been parked
for the last two years,
watching the seasons change
through the kitchen’s lace scene.

All as deaf as the dead; simultaneous
yet different conversations–
I interpret and translate. In unison
they sing my praises:
He’s good boy, oh yes a good boy indeed–
like I was the dog.

Outside Dad chops timber,
I make tea for three.
Cut some cake Gran worries.
What will they think?

Barn brack with ring,
memories of Halloween
play in my head,
welcomed like the moon, always.

Evening: after I have the sheep counted,
I watch the stag in the next field–
they rut this time of year,
call for a mate.

Tomorrow is Friday,
the first of the month.
The priest will call to the sick and elderly–
I will hear the dog announce
his red Toyota Starlett
over the fields.
Thank God Gran doesn’t know. I
can do without that worry
anytime of year.