THROUGH A WINDOW
A ship on the horizon
moves to Malaga
or Marabella
or some such place
upon a mission.
Each day brings changes:
loading, sailing, berthing,
swell or calm.
It has direction,
serves a purpose,
proves its worth.
But come the day it’s
deemed unfit for sea
and everything of use
is stripped for salvage
will it also be off-loaded
at an empty dock
and left to rot.
NIGHT CHOICE
The apple
boughs were shaded,
yard debris fed the roots,
she found on Thursday morning
a single blighted fruit
dangling in the dawn haze,
impassive. Time on time
will failed his aspirations
till he wouldn't strive again.
and aimless, weary waiting for
the peace when fruit is picked,
he helped a zephyr swing him
and stretch his manic neck.
THIS
MORNING
The suspicion you intuit
what I’m thinking
may be whimsy,
but this morning
when I muttered
flesh was covered bone
without a purpose,
you didn't start
or smile.
The Sugar Mill
The ruins you can’t help notice as you pass,
the mill perching on a hill half-way to Maro,
today’s our target. It’s not, mind you,
a spot you’d travel far to photo.
The dirt-track, pocked with puddles
after last night’s thunder,
skirts scrub that harbours (hides?)
amorphous workshops.
We hug the hedge to let a van wedge by
and, no surprise, we get our feet mucked.
But who’d suppose up here they’d hang
a gate upon a crumbling wall
then lock it. Not curious
enough to climb, we concede
scanning from the ditch fulfils our quest.
Presuming that the path will horseshoe
we swing downwards. A pepper poking.
from a canvas greenhouse -
no one’s looking – finds your bag.
Road reached, relieved, we’re on another mission -
hotfoot home before the rain resumes.
“Lárgate, chucho!” A dog, tail under,
scuttles from a drive in our direction,
skulks onto the road as we approach
and arcs behind us. You take a biscuit
from your bag and proffer. She shies
you place it on the pavement
and retreat. Hunger drags her slouching
almost half-way. She sniffs apart
and, slightly limping, cringes back.
We
move on with the notion
she
might follow, but when I turn again
she’s
nowhere to be seen.
Though we maintain the pace,
the
rain outruns us. Grabbling
with your hood, you murmur,
“That creature, more than likely,
has no shelter.” I shrug,
“Millions suffer worse,”
and quicken stride but can’t escape
the scene reruns in sepia
nor the suspicion had I allayed it
I’d have no need
to ply it into verse.
Separate Dreams
A kiss upon the cheek. I hear the door
close.
Footsteps crunch the gravel to the
gate.
I hang my apron on the door hook
and bring a glass of Chablis to the
couch.
Knowing, as a girl, I had potential
sufficed me. To pursue the perks
it promised, too much bother.
Yet waited, as of right, for them to
show.
Dreams, unlike goals, are fate’s
to fashion. And, if they’re not,
we’re spared the effort to employ
them,
free, when fancy takes us,
to envision them fulfilled.
**
Tonight’s contentious twaddle
is gay marriage. Queried,
I shrug, as if it’s beyond me, unfold
a borrowed Herald and reorder.
When I go home at half past nine
I’ll boil the kettle and watch
whatever she is watching on the box.
Then go to bed together and,
,
back to back, dream separate dreams
that neither needs to share.
Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A, Canada and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.
