Gravadlax
The nights were short and the drinks were long
in the suburb without an urbs.
Every parking space reached a state of grace
when the gravadlax was served.
The potholes sang and the glasses rang
to the roll of bin on kerb,
while the golf course lay en
déshabillé
in the suburb without an urbs.
The joy that springs from suburban
things
lies buried in the stars,
as they spin away with the dawning day
from this broken world of ours.
Now and Then
‘… the feerce water streams beateth down, now and then, our walls
and town, which we do daily build.’ The
mayor of Cork, 1548
Cork’s river Lee floods, now and then,
from Crosse’s Green to Grand Parade
where, idling by the Beamish brewery,
she styles up Christchurch crypt with Viking combs
layering quays with unkempt memory.
With her now-and-then flow bold as a legatee
reaching for her father’s silvered bones
spinning along in their reliquary.
Canadian Maple
In a paradise of footpaths,
castellated brick reflects
the casually intimate.
A Canadian maple flames,
walls amplify the walkers’ talk:
‘I lived in Paris for two months,
then war came.’ On all sides a courtesy
treasured by autumnal generations,
victorious beneath the pathless sky.
Richard
Hawtree's poems have appeared in: The Stinging Fly, Banshee, The High Window
and The Honest Ulsterman. His collection The Night I Spoke Irish
in Surrey was published by Dempsey and Windle in 2019.
Really superb poetry. Love them.
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