An Deireadh Seachtain

Oíche dé hAoine,
Ré don bhóthair,
I mo shuí sa chúl le deartháir agus driofúr.
Ag imirt “I Spy,”
Ag canadh amhráin,
Máthair ag tabhairt seacláid dúinn.

Deireadh an turas,
Teach sa bhaile mór,
Iompairthe isteach i lámha cinéalta d’athair.
Sceallóga prátaí,
Uncail ag aoibhiúil,
Boladh de Players Uimhir a Sé agus de móna.

Lá eile,
Sa cistín tí feirme,
Aintín, uncail, colceathrearí agus Seanaithair.
In aice leis an soirn
Te agus codlatach,
Ag eisteacht le scéalta faoi daoine anaithnid.

Tráthnóna de Domhnaigh,
An filleadh,
Go dtí scoil agus leabhair is obair is baile.
Aistear níos ciúin,
Ag athmhachnamh,
Beid muid arais an tseachtain seo chugainn.

 

Weekends

Friday night,
Ready for the off,
Sitting in the back with brother and sister.
Playing “I spy,”
singing rounds,
Mother passing round some chocolate.

Journey’s end,
A house in a town,
Carried in sleeping by kind paternal arms.
Takeaway chips,
Uncle smiling,
Scent of Players No 6 and turf.

Another day,
In a farm house kitchen,
Aunty and uncle and cousins and Granddad.
Sitting by the range,
Warm and drowsy,
Listening to tales of people unknown.

Sunday evening,
The return,
To school and books and work and home.
A quieter trip,
Reflecting,
But knowing we would all be back next week.

Ships

I turned to my left,
you moved to your right,
we met in the middle:
hands reaching out,
foreheads touching,
lips finding mouth.

I moved to the east,
you sailed for the west,
an ocean between us;
heads drawing in,
bodies repelling,
soul losing heart.