Confectionary

I would not expect you to sympathise

Because the butter won’t spread on the scone

After all they are delicious; fresh, warm scones

Almost straight out of the oven

The butter is also fresh, that is

To say it is not soft, nor curdled

It too is straight from its place of keeping

Where it clearly is kept in good shape

I would not expect you to place much store

In my story of the scone, or the butter

Neither the jam, not forgetting the filter coffee

For here they do not do Americano

Nor for you to know that I was on my way

To reflexology, for an hour of calm

As I have my feet scrubbed, massaged

Altogether pampered

I could not tell you, until now

That I would have a small fan

In the treatment room, which gave

A cool breeze, in this the heat of summer

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Spiritual Twins

I had been listening to John O’Donohue

Talking about place, about longing

He had mentioned mountains, streams

Far away horizons

I had watched Boy George on television

Trying to trace his roots in Ireland

He was taken back to the struggles

To the hanging room in Mountjoy Gaol

I slept all night in our bed

That is I did not wake

With my usual aching shoulder

Nor move to the spare room, so as not to disturb

I woke with the words already formed

All I had to do was to write them down

Having done that

I found another poem waiting for me

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Tips Off Lips

I missed you

I missed you, I missed you, I missed you

I so so missed you

I so so wanted not to

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Defining

This is the light

Which the mentor talks of

These are the stills

Where greens are green

Where reds are red

Where love is love

Where hope is never lost

Where desire shines on desire

This is the light

Which falls out of Eastern windows

That loses itself so damned quickly

In the wool pile carpet

While it lets its sky

Be framed, quartered

By the lead lights

On the double-glazed glass

This is the light

Of the all of our knowing

This is the light

Which I show to you now

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Night Class

There is a longing in me

Which resides

In the receptive clay

A clay which you moulded

Knowingly, also unknowingly

There is a longing in me

Which decides

Upon the plasticity of the clay

A clay which you passed, then pressed

One time after another

There is a longing in me

Which provides

A worktable for the clay

A clay which you turned; turned

To rediscover the inside

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