Worry is a gilded cloud

Standing at the concrete wall
At the lookout spot at the top of the Conor Pass,
Your hair a mess of copper wires
Caught by the wind,
You remarked on the
Shadows of the clouds
Moving across the sky and
Blocking out the sunlight.

I like to think that you are the sunlight.
But does that make me the clouds?
Are we the wind?

Is now the shadows?

Heading Home from Home

As I trudge along to the stop
Suitcase in tow,
The broken wheel scraping the
Icy concrete footpath,

Your almost-incredulous,
Crooked little smile sits
Right in the edge of my vision.
Blurred ever so slightly
Like the webs of ice
On the leaves above my head.

So early, cold and quiet.
Even the birds know better
Than to greet this half morning.
I wish I was in bed
With you
Under four layers of blankets.
Cocooned.
Toes touching….

I pull my hat down tight
And hand the driver my ticket.
11 more hours.

Don’t Hate Yourself For Me. Don’t Love Me For Yourself

The wind tells me when to leave.
It howls obliquely
And I close my eyes.

It’s a strange fact
but it is the hands that I fear yet again;
The pleading golden ones
Waving in the gale
Or your gently distorted hooks
Twisted around my own.

My eyes are black with thought.
Your skin, the feathers of swans.
Seven of them,
Necks all curled like thumbs,
Beaks like swollen yellowed fingernails.

I pull at the skin around my mouth
And it comes away in my hand
Like sheafs of paper.
Leaflets about fear,
About melanoma,
schizophrenia and depression.

I offer you a cup of my love
And you sip at it politely,
Making jokes about Parkinson’s
And the the shivering of my fingers
All about your face.

Season’s Greeting

Wandering home,
Along Westland Row,
My fingers firmly pocketed,
Hood up over my
Festively red cheeks,
Puffing away like
The old steam train
From Hollyhead to Kingstown,

Each breath hung
Deathly still
In the air ahead of me
Before being cleft in two
By my nose and the
Rest of my face.

And suddenly,
It began to snow
And I cast my eyes skyward
As the drunks began singing
Some old Christmas song.

‘In Dublin’s Fair City…’

“Why did you make me
Walk so far. You said the
Bus stop was closer. And
Now my feet hurt and my
Back a bit too. And my fingers
Are too cold and my head is
Too warm. Silly thing”

But secretly,
I liked walking you to your
Midnight busstop,
Through the cold corners
Of this town,
Even if we’re not in love.

Cos I don’t feel like a gentleman
Not nearly enough, not to mention
A plain ol’ human being.

And besides,
On the walk home
Alone along the canal,
With its sound sleeping ducks
And its floating armadas
Of forgotten goods,
I can think what I’m
Going to say to a
Pair of bright blue eyes
That I’ve been dreaming of
For a while now.

So This Is Life

Long black waves
beat at the rocks
With their grey white cusps
Foaming and angry.

Behind the thick glass
Of the train window,
Stung with rain,
And inside my dark hood
I sit safe in the
Eye of the storm.

So
While the wind moans
And trys vehemently to
Blow out all the candles
We lit last night in the
Garden and our inebriated state,
I dream desperately
Of freckles and fingertips.