Stepping back
from a country
a world
an economy in crisis
on a misty morning
I pocket acorns
raining down
pick up conkers
still creamy
in their wombs
promising to find
a vacant site,
damp soil for them.
After that
they’re on their own.
by Judy Russell
Annaghmakerrig
To say
I’ve been here
among the teacups
and the plates
the struggling
and the great
is enough
by Carol Boland
Annamaghkerrig
Wistful evening light and quiet
lends me a still life of leaves
fragile in their leaving, a brocade
of sycamore and oak, one sequoia tree
high, out of its world, blue limestone paths
and shadows green on green.
I memorise the moment
when darkness closes in, there will be
times when I shall need it.
by Bernie Kenny
As I reach the lake
ripples reflect
lights of the morning
some pink like the dawn
more grey and silver
five ducks fly over
holding formation
like Children of Lir grown
smaller and brown
scoot quacking
on wavelets to shallows
the shelter of reeds
leaving the water
silent and still
as pools of your eyes
blue flecked with hazel
before they were closed.
On the shore under cover
of hazel and chestnut
mindfulness stretching
I breathe in this autumn.
by Rosy Wilson
Seven Poppy Pods Stand Tall
after a painting by Helen Comerford
encrusted paint on board
wild red petals faded, fallen.
Seven round bellies fatten grey,
they are in pod, ready
to drop seed for spring
to rouse the flower.
came in late autumn
beyond showy petal
milk-filled sap, seed filled belly.
Embedded.
Bealtaine came in autumn
pregnant with words.
by Marguerite Colgan
