Arise
Is it that they arise again?
The Daffodils of the Earth,
or simply a seed misguided,
golden weed, of no worth.
Is it that they come and go?
Like lucid air in the lung,
or simply a static plant
whose music has been sung.
Is it that they mirror us?
A brief flourish in time,
or simply the organic order
queuing in the line.
Is it that they are eternal?
Timeless with no goodbye,
or simply seizing stems
as we watch them wilt and die.
Is it that we love their beauty?
Aesthetics from the heart,
or simply a small reminder
to place them in a crock.
Is it that they have some meaning?
Amber, spotted, dotted, gurus,
or simply biological
a mirage of the mind – a ruse.
Is it that they dig down deep?
To crumbly, slithery, chambers,
or simply a vigorous veneer
that makes us think, Who Cares?
Is it that they offer hope?
Of an impending promised land,
or simply that they make us smile
as we cup one round our hand.
Give Way
Down the undulating hill and a quick ski upwards
to nestle coarsely on the faded grass and gravel.
The pickle green fields visible in the near and long distance,
perched and prepping against the pole,
kneading its cool toughness, pitching the palm skywards.
The protrusion is shallow and wonky pressing blazed black letters
from the outside; clasping, embracing, enveloping.
A border of warning, an innocent injunction, a junction.
Strange symbol but familiar, so familiar, soothing
as it stands, faded, benign, just a sign, do not upset her.
Lifeless but living, inanimate but ingenious, objective but ordering.
The feint smell of slurry, deep in the hollow, provocative in the pit,
barely flinching. Just hinging – to the left, deflecting – the squally showers,
staying put, directing, conducting. The silent sentry, the burrowed box,
patrolling, doting, loving, giving, gesturing, gesturing, gesturing…
Portadown People’s Park
Gristly hedges morphing to modern stone walls, a new
Boundary, a peaceful partition, the innate chain of
Events. Changing structures, fresh psaltery paint; crisp turf
Set smoothly and heavily, slanting shallowly to the bendy
River. Its confines beyond the old and new frontier, a permanent
Reminder of past and future, of present and a new Earth.
Manicured lawns and fairways fuse with fenced ponds of
Ducks and tiny dinky birds. Struggling to fly, they rest on soil
Bored posts, staring to find their friends
And Foes who used to be plentiful, congregating
Deeply near the Arena pitch. The decent pitch, where sporting
Fantasy came true and where it was simple to defend.
Much easier than the slope behind the field and the black steel bench
Where the bastion was loose. With one wrong word, a
Rebuttal could follow, did follow, slinking in ignominy to the vesicle
of Sport. A trail of red water unwinding, a compassionate clue, as
Claret, clotted sap of Buckfast and Mundie’s floods the tonsils.
The party still in full swing, the grass still growing, all is still well
Until the legs become shattered by a trolley handle – a sunken relic in the
Ballybay River. The summer heatwave sheening and shining its m
