It's Spuds this year, Isn't it?

One year it was tulips in the big field
On the high road and you never knew
What an early May day might yield
Where once the winter barley grew.

They had spuds this year, and I saw
Drills as far as the eye could see and
Alleys wide and deep enough to roll raw
Naked round in the dry crumbling land.

It's raining now and the dark green
Stalks are pushing aside the brown
Mother of clay. All that can be seen
Is green upon green tumbling down.

Sadly Tommy Farrelly didn't see
Yet another miracle born for me.

Sitting Still and Still Sitting

Sometimes I stand
Way back from the crowd
In the quiet perspicuity of Dungimmon
Where hills were hills and high.
Where imagination was in freefall
And all the jackdaws cawed the
Same old story from Barneyarrick.

We burned blue paraffin in holes in
Stone ditches and this was our day
Out when candy floss and whirligigs
And other townie things were just that
Small bit out of reach. And still I stand
Reaching for the small twigs and fragile
Eggshells blue spotted, dropped
By the jackdaws , wondering will

They ever run squawking across my
mind on the final days when weak
and sag skinned I sit staring across
the lawn at the new day yawning.

^

Biography

Vincent Coyle lives in Dublin but his
roots are firmly lodged in the quiet
drumlins of  Cavan. He had one poem
published in a company magazine many
years ago and writes mainly for amusement.
His work also appeared in the second and sixth issues of Electric Acorn.