The Limestone Bowl
Scant winter rains are not enough
to flood Carran's limestone bowl.
No swans this year, but a flock of starlings
that rise in a calligrapher's upward stroke.
The turlough is empty but my cup is full
of gifts to mark another year:
a pair of hands steady at the wheel,
the yellow sun of a freshly-baked cake.
The new season enters in the wake of death,
discreetly tip-toeing behind the mourners.
No rain, ice or snow, just the silent thrust
of white tips unobserved until today.
The injured past comes back like a mangy dog.
It hangs around, infecting my doorstep with its sores
and the smell of neglect, trips me up when I venture out,
circling my legs, ready for the next casual kick.
If I feed it, it'll never go away.
If I ignore it, it'll never leave
but press its scabby skin against the door-pane,
crouch in the corner of my eye, licking its paw,
or cower in the wing-mirror as I drive away
and limp out to meet me when I come back,
loyal and unwelcome as disease.
The Watched Phone
Her son is out there somewhere
the rain beats his jacket seeps through his jeans
runnels of water travel from nape to chin
somewhere out there her son in seeping jacket
beaten from nape to chin
travels through runnels of water
out there the rain seeps nape to chin
water runnels down jeans and jacket
her beaten son is travelling
he seeps through jeans and jacket
runnelling out somewhere
water seeps and her son
travels rain-runnelled nape to chin
Copyright © Lorna Shaughnessy 2015