The Halfway House

She lifted the cover at the bottom
Of my old swing-boat pram, wheels big as a bicycles.
She wore her heavy woollen coat,
Its layers gathered with a wide belt at her waist.
In the small dark porch she sidled along the wall
And went through the drab door.
Speechless still and in the silence
I watched her carry the brown Stout bottles away.
There was nothing to distract on my elevated bed,
Just the strange sour smell, until she came back.
Stopping to look at the coins in her hand,
My mother dropped them one by one into the purse.
With an effort she kicked at the brake,
Moved the pram around to face the drizzle outside.

Bad Night in Kilcar

The woman and child by the fire,
Watchful, quiet, shocked
By black blaring weather outside.
Mighty gusts storm in loud,
Milk bucket crashes on the stone floor,
Oil cloth raises blisters on the kitchen table.
The child aware that she shares
This gravest of adult hours, anxious, late.
Wordless. Until the rattle of the latch.
Columba comes through, struggling
With the door, shakes the rain from
His drenched cap, " The lambs are in.
Safe".

^

Biography

I used to write but stopped for a whole lot of reasons. I had been published in various papers and magazines, the final publication being in the Raven Arts series, Urban Arts 2, edited by Dermot Bolger. Now that I`ve begun writing again, I have been motivated along the way by the odd workshop, initially under the auspices of the Pushkin Prizes Trust. Also started the Gortahork Writers Group some three months ago and all is rosy at present in the cretive writing garden!