I PAINT THE SCENE WITH MY PEN

I paint the scene with my pen,

Branches lie under a blanket of snow,

Giving birth,

White fingers,

Filled with dripping diamonds,

Swans drift like tiny boats

In the calm waters,

Suddenly they take flight,

Turning the still into havoc,

I hear the sound of flutter,

As they climb over Abbey Bridge;

Small birds dig for food,

The wood is covered with white footprints

Two girls walk by,

Talking of a good night out,

Do they see what I see?

See related image detail

POPE JOHN PAUL

ON HIS VISIT TO IRELAND

ADDRESSING THE ONE MILLION PEOPLE IN THE PHOENIX PARK———–

I heard him call

The million crowd

As they were hushed

Without a sound

And listening childlike

Two each word

That seemed to come

From far above

His path was hard

His road was long

Yet we would follow

With this song

He spoke of truth

But truth is hard

For only truth can give

You guard

So hushed the crowd

So silent be

As he called

to you

And me

MARCHING ORDERS

TODAY IS DECEMBER ’21

THE SAME RITUAL EVERY YEAR

IT IS DECEMBER

YOUNG BROWN SWAN

BEING KICKED OUT

HE WON’T LEAVE

HIS COMFORT IS YESTERDAY

HE HAS TO GO

NO MUSIC CHARTS HIS GOING

BITTEN

PUSHED

ROARS FROM HIS PARENTS

SKID ADLE

GO

DON’T COME BACK

WE LOVED YOU YESTERDAY

YESTERDAY IS NOT TODAY

THIS DOOR IS CLOSED

BOLTED