Page 2 "My take on things"

This fragile life

Who stormed your heart on this summer’s day?

Where before, all seemed sun blessed and easy;

Without care and needless worry,

Storm of uncertainty and recklessness;

Thundered through your life’s equilibrium.

All now, a topsy turvy drama of issues,

Everything held by a feeble tread-

Hanging on, waiting, wondering what’s next.

This is the life, a fragile life, in someone else’s hands;

As it always was and always will be,

Not as though it was wrapped in cotton, protected;

But lived and loved and experienced much,

Now smiles and endless laughter replaced;

By fractured complicated numbness.

Acceptance is a bitter pill to swallow;

Chocking, gulping air in the melee of teardrops,

Torn apart; those carefully woven years of joy,

All the innocence, simplicity of it all-

This is a waiting, of dark pain to carry;

Few will stay the distance here, a long journey-

Weeks wishing they were days, and minute’s seconds;

Oh to have time back, wish it better,

Wish it never happened, wish it wasn’t you;

But this breaking heart only knows truth,

Sees little else, so little hope;

Who would bring a miracle now, to banish

The misery that besets this weary soul;

This is the life, a fragile life in someone else’s hands-

As it was and always will be.

Blackbird serenade

Upon my mountain ash, today-

The first of April here;

Soft satin black with yellow beak,

You honour me, so near

Beneath, rest golden daffodils,

Those words worth everything;

Soft silky yellow bonnet’s nod,

To dance in rhythm, as you sing

Bird; dazzle me in wonderment,

Send me far beyond this mind;

Please me with your serenade,

A rendition so refined

I’ll write you down a verse or two,

So inspired; I count here, four;

In your honour and to compliment,

A blackbird serenade I adore.

Dark sodden gold

Across Erín’s plains, stacks; dark,

Awakened from compressed time, worked,

Bog folk and their favourite tools

Would cut and set to dry by winds,

And seldom baking sun, fine day for fools.

There were many years, the likes I’ve seen,

Provisions and the flasks of tea to sate

The sweat mopped brow and aching limb;

A timely intermission for the chat

While bog hole chilled a bottle in its swim.

So busy in the ways and of those

That gathered, just like squirrels would

A winter store, to stave off cold;

Nuggets of this kind, precise of place,

Flat lands of the dark sodden gold.

Early morn’ with purpose, report a crowd,

Who come and set their way in motion, rhythm;

Bending, turning, stacking, moving, mopping,

The world upside down, head between my legs

As art and nature lovers, view while stopping.

Hushed; for those turf days are but few,

While the partridge make their home here

Midst the wetlands and the olden ways,

Now but a re-enactment for the tourist,

Stand the sculptures; as another artist plays.