by Janice Fitzpatrick-Simmons

there is one, it seems to me
a narrow mountain track with roiling
grey clouds full of fears and rushing wind.
I must turn my back on that; stay indoors,
light a fire against the cold,
  sit thinking of what might–have–beens;
hope that this too will pass.

The routes of loss are varied
it seems to me, there is one as dark
as lough water — a wild sky scatters its light
mine eyes dazzle.
And for an instant, I fathom the depths,
then darkness again. The wind dries my tears.
I steady myself. The day has cleared. I face
south and west; lake water still,
mirrored and myriad trees reflected on the surface
a glass of lemonade in my hand at a small table
where sun warms my bones. All of it,
all of it for love. I raise my glass,
fill myself with its sharp sweetness.

by Janice Fitzpatrick-Simmons

I lived inside a Shakespearian winter; malcontent,
agreeing to a poverty of the soul. And thus agreed,
what followed was anger and regret. My voice rang
from the dark glen of my dwelling; raised
and fell to nothing.

But a day came, as it does, when the light
was more than the dark. Snow was on the mountain
yet growth lifted its strong old head
to daffodils along roads and by–ways

so that I longed toward the sun; forgave everyone,
even myself. Inside Schubert’s The Trout — waterfalls
tumbled to streams, streams to rivers,
and me somehow still alive

And of course friends came with their sound of laughter,
the clink and ring of glass that became song.
Fires were lit, of course they were; they shimmered

and glowed under the roof,
under the Clai Mor Realtai, The Compostela,
The Milky Way.

by Susan Lindsay

where
the great oak tree
has its roots —
between them
eroded soil
affords shelter,
   the trunk sturdy
   behind our backs,
   they spread a cavern
   beneath, the tap
    — far below imagining —
   feeds seed of fruits

falling from
       the spread and alchemy of branches —
        above
   a canopy
reaching across lands and seas
where the acorns fall.
Imaginings torn with leaves
from the reach by gales
that shipwreck occasional bearers
scurry others to shelter.

A gentler wind lands
empty husks
to decompose, compose ground
where earthed ’corns release
sapling varieties of old tunes
tap rhythms for the feats
of new generations.

Shelter where the old roots
break ground

harvest
thanks.

by Noel Duffy

A memory of rain,
of our taxi travelling through
deserted streets at dawn,
the headlights searching out
the road ahead of us
as we made our way home.
Life seemed long.
That was how it felt to be young.

Time passed. We moved in
together, shared four walls,
watched as some friends grew tired,
the daily rituals of marriage
too much to carry. We said
it would never be us,
that we would brace ourselves
against such heavy weather.
That we were in this together.

But things changed. We moved
apart, found different rhythms
to our lives, conspired to keep
some corner of ourselves hidden,
each cut from a common source,
the curse of weariness
falling down between us.

The season’s turned to rain.
The boats huddle in the harbour,
hull by hull, the staccato
of their rigging in the wind
a keening in the evening air.
I pull tight my coat and walk
the pier, try to hold back my fear,
you somewhere else without me.
We made promises to each other
that we could not keep, denied it
too long for the children’s sake.