What does the sea know?
Journeys do not end,
Life is the present river.
The apple blossoms of May
Make such tender poems,
Preludes to autumn.
Thursday, May 13, 2021
Tuesday, May 11, 2021
The Forgotten Farm
Another ekphrastic poem based on a Greg Hasting's drawing, and memory. More of Greg's work featuring poetry from Michael Farry, Marian Kilcoyne, Maureen Gallagher and Luke Power can be seen on his Instagram page @greghastings1066, here.
The
Forgotten Farm
Birds
chatter, a thrush jumps
up
to peck raspberries,
later
alighting on the flowerbed,
quickly
poops yellow shit,
eyes
me slyly like an alligator,
then
flits away.
Some
children play in grey distance,
calling,
shouting, as we did.
A
tractor pauses in throttle,
chugs
on into the evening.
Roses
are eruptions, impressive
by
the white-washed shed.
The
milking parlour’s gable window
is
black as the universe.
I
see my father through it, thirty years ago.
The
Friesians are lined up
with
pumps on their udders.
I
pat their black and white hide.
They
swish tails, swat flies away, chew the cud.
Milk
churns in the tank, cooling.
A
bee settles on a barren rose.
The
children are outside again.
As
the sun sets, dreadful loneliness,
like
a strangling weed, grips my throat
before
a million silver stars appear.
Orla
Fay
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