August 22nd
The fresh winds blow strongly
All the way from Americay
The high waves crash soundly
On beaches by the bay.
The sea birds rise and fall
With noisy shrieks and calls
In a sky that’s powder blue
On a weekend that’s unsure
What the coming week will bring.
A lot of anger and annoyance
Sadly solve but little
The journalists may type and scream
And the politicians prattle.
Time perhaps to take time out
To reflect on what it’s all about
To take a breather
Turn off the phone
Watch the waves
Breathe the ozone.
Storm Helen August 2020
Storm Helen whips the waves
Along the beach by Carnsore Pier
While nervous swimmers ponder
On the strand uncertain.
Although it’s August
This is ireland and the camper vans
Head home with mountain bikes
Attached on racks along their backs.
The narrow summer season
Is shrunken by a deadly virus
That keeps appearing at the party Intervening when least invited.
We thought the topic had moved on
Because we had moved on, despairing
That this year might disappear
As if we never wore it.
Down on the beach the south wind runs
Along the sand, between the dunes,
The blue skies pretend last night’s a dream
When Helen shook the creaking eaves.
South Wexford is a windy place
Even at the best of times
Where the ocean meets the Irish Sea
And silent shipwrecks bear witness.
Storm Helen has come so far
From the balmy tropics
Her journey not yet over
Time for a final story.
21/8/2020
Let us pray
Let us pray for those we love
And maybe more for those we hate
Let us make this dear world
A loving, caring, gentler place.
We think of those who live beside us
Of those in countries far away
We think of those who have departed
As clear today as when we saw them.
We think of sick ones in the wards
We think of those who die at home
We pray for babies and for mummies
Their first day in the nurseries.
We think of Beirut
And all in Syria
In war torn Yemen
And the US too.
We pray for them
Who have too much
For those lying hungry
As they try to sleep.
We pray for mother
Mother Earth to shield us
As we shield her
From greed and menace.
Irish summer holidays
The mist is a milk
That comes up from the sea
As soft as silk
Or the breath of a baby.
The buckets and spades
Lie hidden indoors
It’s out with the wellies
It’s down to the stores
To buy stuff for the kids
To pay weather’s ransom
On a soft day in August
When a jigsaw’s the answer.
The plants and flowers
May not actually smile
But they’re pleased as hell
With this celestial favor.
The birds hide for cover
To keep their wings dry
The rain drums on the roof
Sweet sounds of the summer
I remember with fondness
Days spent with my cousins
In a converted old school bus
In a house called The Elms.
It was time for a tramp
For a walk in the rain
To smell the full incense
Of nature in train.
It was a gentle wee sport
To walk in the puddles
With boots and our rain-hats
Tied under our chin.
Then home to aunt Ita
And sit by the fire
Eating mountains of toast
Toasting marshmallows.
August Sunday Morning Stroll
It’s the quiet time of morning
With the god fearing sleeping
The dew lies wet on grass
That sits in the middle of paths
That are lesser worn.
Out at sea a tiny boat
Putters on a silver sea
That sparkles in the early sun
The tide is out this morn
The sand stretches out a mile or so.
On Clougheast Castle the flag is flying
Saluting Mayo and the Atlantic coast
Here at Carnsore point the seas
Merge and mingle, no loner single
The Irish Sea snd Atlantic Ocean are married.
We salute and pass, stop and start
Past early walkers with their dogs
Breeds compared, stories shared
With perfect strangers but no ones strange
In Wexford on a sunny summer morning.
