As the Crow Flies
posted 1st August 2024
the 'ordinary' everyday . still extraordinary
Birthday Poem
I could mourn these
dried-to-dust offshoots;
light as ghosts' driftwood.
Whispers,
died as the still-curled clumps
on gnarled branches
and never flighted as wishes.
I am ten mile on
and I now observe kisses -
the burnt-red berry
married for the season to its bush.
Clusters, like sisters in happy polygamy:
a twig to ten berry;
a fist and a fist over cover of wood.
I am on the road past Cushendun -
my eyes are a photographer.
The pictures I am taking are squares of hectare:
Patched together, they go up and descend.
They kneel before glen and to the sea they bow down.
whispers
my body and my house bear scars from my dogs . keepsakes of an unconditional love
Mother's Ma,
you've left
But on occasion,
in a shop,
an iridescent and
unexpected reflection,
I find you
sitting at some degree
between my nose
and the bones of
my cheeks
I find you
the day-to-day brings the water and the light
Small Things
Sometimes it's the smallest things
If she did not wear the peacock glittered dress when she sang
I'd have missed the box of sparkle
in the muffled context
of an old stained-glass church,
dusky coloured
Three pews in from the back, I'd have lost
twenty percent of the joy
She will never know
I couldn't see her face
She sang like the angels were at
her back
He played and she levitated
Caught me up in the air _ we hung on invisible thread
The deep feminine vowelling in
tongues European
Perfectly pronounced
But it was the sway of the sequins
Their shimmery acquiescence
As if a chorus to him and a run of
showgirls to us, the audience
I was singularly the audience
to the shining teal detail
I don't think anyone saw it rhythmically
jumping
pitter patter _ crescendo
Laughing quite
loudly for
a piece of clothing
that could have been carefully or less carefully chosen
But my gift made it a given
thing to me
Thanks be
perspective is everything