Irish Daffodils
… and the daffodils look good today…
The Cranberries
she arrived in December
200 Gaulois; a black beret
‘here comes panache’
he’d said
he was reading a book
about Lilies at Easter
crucifixes; rifles; gunfire & snipers
(should I kiss you/kiss the ground)
‘you make me feel like the Pope’
he’d said
the pub in Knockcrockery
sold tea, coffee, bread
they toasted each other
Guinness; whisky; cloves
a teaspoon of sugar
there were bodies upstairs
‘poetry and death; that’s Ireland’
he’d said
skating on black ice/thin ice
toasting marshmallows/each other
whisky; cloves; a teaspoon of sugar
he lit candles in windows
‘for strangers to find us;
he’d said
in January
the house in Knockcrockery
grew lumps in the lawn
‘Daffodils in April’
‘Things are never as they seem’
she’d said
she sent postcards
to the edge of the earth
pictures of daffodils
stone houses; smoking chimneys
‘having a great time’
‘wish you were here’
they’d read
in February
he opened his arms crucifix wide
he embraced the green hedges
‘we infiltrate’
he’d said
she saw only chlorophyll
discarded
occasional thorns
handfuls of red/black & blueberries
heard the distant conversations
of birds
migrating South
in Dublin
he showed her the monument
honour for his ancestors
who’d fought hers
he wielded the hammer; the chisel
he was the stonemason
‘the bridges we build’
he’d said
in March
another peat fire
old Irish ritual/damp Irish routine
the lumps in the lawn
yet to rupture
‘we dodge each other’s bullets’
she’d said
in April
she bought Anais Anais – duty free
(she given up smoking)
took 36 photographs
of green hills colliding
there were no Irish sunsets
a highway years later
a song on the radio
‘I should have waited for the daffodils’
she said.
