The lark in the
clean air
The Summer sun
shimmered through the leaves
and the shadows of
the ash swayed upon the pebble-dashed walls,
the sound of the
river flowed over the rounded mossy stones
and the waters ran
deep after a hard night’s rain.
The red front door
was ajar,
a song from the
morning radio floated from beyond the hall,
in the kitchen, the
female voice sang the lark in the clean air
as the rasher and
the egg danced on the pan.
June had arrived
from out of the cold shadows,
and we thought that
the longer days would last forever,
packing our cares
away in the forgotten places,
as the joy of youth
stretched out before us.
Voices lost in the
wind
I call your name,
but it gets lost in the rising wind,
your tears are
drowned in the driving rain,
your face is fading
in the fog of time.
Looking out to sea
with the cold seeping into your skin,
thoughts like waves
drifting from what might have been,
with the briny
taste of the sea in your mouth,
and the far-off
storm in your faraway eyes.
The Silent Village
The voices still resonate
around the fallen stones of
Inishark,
songs carried on the Atlantic
storms,
spectral shadows walk the paths
to abandoned grounds where
progenies played,
agrarians toiled and spirits sleep.
Tears soaked into the island
shallow soil,
the sun and the air dwells now
amongst its crumbled ruins,
a settlement stolen by sorrow,
the death of an island.
The last of the living
on a grey October day,
carried off by St. John,
before the birth of Winter,
blessed by the father,
a floating armada drifts
to dreams of deliverance.
From out of the fog walk the ghosts of Killeaden
By a spring of
sacred water,
the hermit, St.
Aiden built his beehive cell,
surrounded by oak
and ash.
His blessed
brothers followed to the
pollard trees
within the bealach
upon the banks of
the Gwestion.
An Abbey raised to
the ground by the boot of the Williamite,
Franciscans slaughtered
by the foreign blade,
blood upon blood.
A solemn vow on the
hills of Lis Ard,
to not quench a
fire on a hearth,
for the souls of
the brethren,
from out of the fog
still walk the ghosts of Killeaden.
The bridge of sorrows
Forced to leave
Donegal
with a belly full
of suffering
and a hunger for
hope.
On foot, the long
road for Muckish gap
from Falcarragh to
Kilmacrenan
towards the port of
Derry
and a six-week
passage on board the Cornelia
for Ellis Island.
Saying farewell to
loved ones
upon the bridge of
sorrows
that spans a river
of tears.
One last look into
their faces
to capture the
eyes, they will never see again
one last grasp to
hold them before painfully letting go,
their mother’s
cries upon the bridge will haunt them,
and come to them in
the dark of a New York night.
Sacred Heart
Heavy, thick and humid, late
summer weather.
standing for a moment resting on
the car door
looking towards the house,
dull red brick broken with
splashes of colour
from flower filled window boxes
and hanging baskets,
water dripped from them,
the yard was grey but clean and
washed.
Walking towards the front gate,
nervous, anxious,
humming a familiar song to distract
himself,
knocking twice and standing
back,
Waiting, shuffling feet,
an opened door,
a small woman stood, wiping
herself with a tea towel,
she stared and then smiled,
stretching out her welcome hand.
Following her down the dark
narrow hall,
crosses and relics on the wall,
the sacred heart lit up.
In the kitchen a stout man was
peeling the skin off hot spuds,
he didn’t get up from his chair
and just continued his task,
keeping his eyes focused on the
job in hand.
An apology from the visitor from
coming at a bad time,
he took the tea and fruit cake
slice,
as his brother forked green
cabbage around the plate
an awkward silence hung in the
air,
until the dinner was finished,
until he was ready.
“Are you home for long?”
“A fortnight.”
“Where you stayin?”
“At McMahon’s, It’s a fine
place”
“You could have stayed here.”
“I know … but”
“But what?”
“It’s for the best that I don’t”
“Are you still driving the
machinery over beyond”
“I am, there is still plenty of
work”
“You must be making good money”
“Not too bad, but you earn it,
long days.”
“Your over there twenty years
now”
“I am”
“Would you not come home;
you have your money made?”
“Come home to what?”
“To where you belong”
“Where is that?”
Kevin
McManus is a poet-writer from Leitrim in Western Ireland. He has published six
novels, a collection of short stories and two books of poetry. His most recent
poetry book called “The Hawthorn Tree” was published by Lapwing Publications,
Belfast. His poems have been published in various journals including the
Honest Ulsterman , the Galway Review and the Lothlorien journal.
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