Recent poems
A DARK WOOD
We’d wandered off the road into a gloomy forest,
high in the Tuscan Alps, the Garfagnana.
I remember the soil, how it smelled of October,
a mush of leaves underfoot.
The year on its dying slope, leaning towards its end,
mists drifting in half-hearted gusts of wind,
and the trees closing in.
Deep in conversation, we forgot where we were. Then
‘We’re lost,’ I said, and, ‘where will we sleep tonight?’
Branches dripping with moisture and with menace,
the daylight fading from a sunless day.
You showed a lack of concern that I still wonder about.
You knew the path back, you said, and took us there straightaway.
(originally published in Poetry Ireland, no 141, guest editor: Mary O’Donnell)
——————————————————
THE GREAT STORM OF 1987
The wind reads the sky tonight like a furious conductor
banging the score with his fist,
sending the clouds scurrying for shelter.
It reminds me of the inaugural storm
of October 1987
that softened our minds to submit
to the terror of a climate whirling out of control.
I remember that the corrugated iron roof of the shed of the city farm
opposite our home
sailed like a raft through the bow window of my next door neighbour’s flat,
the one who never said good morning.
All her lights went out. This had to be an emergency.
I rushed downstairs into our concrete floored shared hall. There she stood,
hands on hips, looking puzzled.
‘Gaat het?’ I said, everything okay?
She skewered me with her Medusa stare.
Even without the storm,
I was a blow-in.
Later, towards midnight,
my daughter came back
from a disco. The bus never showed up and
the plate-glass panel of the bus shelter where she was waiting
had been shattered by the wind.
And I’m sure if I asked anyone in our street
of a certain age
if they remembered the great storm of 1987,
they’d all have a story.
But stories are one thing and storms another
and the storms keep on coming
till all our tales are yesterday.
Previously published in Skylight 47 Poetry, no. 20, Summer/Autumn 2025
——————————————————-
ON MY RELUCTANCE TO WRITE POETRY ABOUT GAZA
When I wake in the morning,
longing for normal life
and ordinary joy,
the news grabs me by the throat.
Another rampage by the IDF.
Blood shed wantonly.
I’d want to write poems to match the horror
far off, yet close
as the flat next-door.
Once in a generation we think
we feel a tectonic shift of perceptions.
Maybe now is such a moment.
But poetry, or so I say,
marches to a different tune
and nothing I could write
about Gaza
would save a life,
or change one mind.
I hold my tongue.
My shame falls short.
A DARK WOOD
We’d wandered off the road into a gloomy forest,
high in the Tuscan Alps, the Garfagnana.
I remember the soil, how it smelled of October,
a mush of leaves underfoot.
The year on its dying slope, leaning towards its end,
mists drifting in half-hearted gusts of wind,
and the trees closing in.
Deep in conversation, we forgot where we were. Then
‘We’re lost,’ I said, and, ‘where will we sleep tonight?’
Branches dripping with moisture and with menace,
the daylight fading from a sunless day.
You showed a lack of concern that I still wonder about.
You knew the path back, you said, and took us there straightaway.
(originally published in Poetry Ireland, no 141, guest editor: Mary O’Donnell)
——————————————————
THE GREAT STORM OF 1987
The wind reads the sky tonight like a furious conductor
banging the score with his fist,
sending the clouds scurrying for shelter.
It reminds me of the inaugural storm
of October 1987
that softened our minds to submit
to the terror of a climate whirling out of control.
I remember that the corrugated iron roof of the shed of the city farm
opposite our home
sailed like a raft through the bow window of my next
door neighbour’s flat,the one who never said good morning.
All her lights went out. This had to be an emergency.
I rushed downstairs into our concrete
floored shared hall. There she stood,
hands on hips, looking puzzled.
‘Gaat het?’ I said, everything okay?
She skewered me with her Medusa stare.
Even without the storm,
I was a blow-in.
Later, towards midnight,
my daughter came back
from a disco. The bus never showed up and
the plate-glass panel of the bus shelter where she was waiting
had been shattered by the wind.
And I’m sure if I asked anyone in our street
of a certain age
if they remembered the great storm of 1987,
they’d all have a story.
But stories are one thing and storms another
and the storms keep on coming
till all our tales are yesterday.
Previously published in Skylight 47 Poetry, no. 20, Summer/Autumn 2025
——————————————————-
ON MY RELUCTANCE TO WRITE POETRY ABOUT GAZA
When I wake in the morning,
longing for normal life
and ordinary joy,
the news grabs me by the throat.
Another rampage by the IDF.
Blood shed wantonly.
I’d want to write poems to match the horror
far off, yet close
as the flat next-door.
Once in a generation we think
we feel a tectonic shift of perceptions.
Maybe now is such a moment.
But poetry, or so I say,
marches to a different tune
and nothing I could write
about Gaza
would save a life,
or change one mind.
I hold my tongue.
My shame falls short.
A DARK WOOD
We’d wandered off the road into a gloomy forest,
high in the Tuscan Alps, the Garfagnana.
I remember the soil, how it smelled of October,
a mush of leaves underfoot.
The year on its dying slope, leaning towards its end,
mists drifting in half-hearted gusts of wind,
and the trees closing in.
Deep in conversation, we forgot where we were. Then
‘We’re lost,’ I said, and, ‘where will we sleep tonight?’
Branches dripping with moisture and with menace,
the daylight fading from a sunless day.
You showed a lack of concern that I still wonder about.
You knew the path back, you said, and took us there straightaway.
(originally published in Poetry Ireland, no 141, guest editor: Mary O’Donnell)
——————————————————
THE GREAT STORM OF 1987
The wind reads the sky tonight like a furious conductor
banging the score with his fist,
sending the clouds scurrying for shelter.
It reminds me of the inaugural storm
of October 1987
that softened our minds to submit
to the terror of a climate whirling out of control.
I remember that the corrugated iron roof of the shed of the city farm
opposite our home
sailed like a raft through the bow window of my next door neighbour’s flat,
the one who never said good morning.
All her lights went out. This had to be an emergency.
I rushed downstairs into our concrete floored shared hall. There she stood,
hands on hips, looking puzzled.
‘Gaat het?’ I said, everything okay?
She skewered me with her Medusa stare.
Even without the storm,
I was a blow-in.
Later, towards midnight,
my daughter came back
from a disco. The bus never showed up and
the plate-glass panel of the bus shelter where she was waiting
had been shattered by the wind.
And I’m sure if I asked anyone in our street
of a certain age
if they remembered the great storm of 1987,
they’d all have a story.
But stories are one thing and storms another
and the storms keep on coming
till all our tales are yesterday.
Previously published in Skylight 47 Poetry, no. 20, Summer/Autumn 2025
——————————————————-
ON MY RELUCTANCE TO WRITE POETRY ABOUT GAZA
When I wake in the morning,
longing for normal life
and ordinary joy,
the news grabs me by the throat.
Another rampage by the IDF.
Blood shed wantonly.
I’d want to write poems to match the horror
far off, yet close
as the flat next-door.
Once in a generation we think
we feel a tectonic shift of perceptions.
Maybe now is such a moment.
But poetry, or so I say,
marches to a different tune
and nothing I could write
about Gaza
would save a life,
or change one mind.
I hold my tongue.
My shame falls short.