Sitting on a Rock

Sitting on a Rock

I read poetry

to the estuary

and mountains,

-

words of one

of their own.

-

The road

to Fairbourne

is too far,

-

afternoon’s

shadows

grow long,

-

currents

too swift.

-

I turn back,

take photographs

-

of a lone

fisherman

-

on a sandbank

underneath

the footbridge.

-

Even the Rhinogs

cannot console me.

Of You, with Flowers

Of you, with flowers

in your hands

-

scabious, harebell, gypsy rose

campion, burnett, Bradda weed.

-

You skip down Micklow Lane

alone, even then

-

be you in meadows

or observing tadpoles

-

in the glassy water

of the spring fed

-

limestone trough

next to the shed

-

where you found

the dead sheep,

-

childbirth no joy

for this ewe.

-

Chubby, glasses

friends few

-

but you knew

all the names

-

of the flowers

back then.