The Haibun Journal

I have two pieces in the current issue of The Haibun Journal.

*****************

' - like sleeping and then waking; the in-breath and the out...

                     ...With a Faoilleach moon hung high' 

[From ‘Crotach/ Curlew’ ]

' – to the right swans take their place in fields filled with water that should not be there at all, water that has ignored all borders'

[From 'Inbhir / Estuary ']

'Atlantic Palimpsest

https://literatureworks.org.uk/national-memory-day-writing-competition-shortlist-announced/


'Atlantic Palimpsest' has found a home at The London Magazine after being shortlisted for The National Memory Day Prize.

https://www.thelondonmagazine.org/atlantic-palimpsest-kerri-ni-dochartaigh/

‘Atlantic palimpsest’ 

-for Heaney and the Peace Bridge 

  

Grey and greying sky  

reflected in choppy body, 

as our matching heron 

performs his balancing act for all to see. 

  

The Donegal hills, 

patient, 

waiting; barren, 

call a siren song, 

lost and piercing- on the wind. 

ours is a past seeped in rust. 

a history bathed in thick, black squelch; 

M U D L A R K I N G, always, for our sense of self. 

waiting for that ancient bogland 

to spit 

and spew 

and remould 

our memory of last Winter, 

in all its terrifying beauty. 

  

The years that have passed 

are like a body now lost 

to the sea: already long gone 

many moons before that dark body of water 

swallowed it up 

-claiming-maiming; tossed 

-out and in along a coast line  

that will not claim ownership, in the harsh grey spell of morning. 

  

Things hidden under the surface 

that cannot 

cannot 

be kept in the belly of the sea. 

Memories that are washed up 

all along the tideline- obscuring the path 

not yet solid; the future not yet in seed. 

  

 I gather spat up objects, broken things and leftover parts of the storm  

and begin to see them, clearly, in all that fragile, unstoppable beauty;  

  

under a thundering, Island-thick sky.

Cordella magazine

I feel so honoured to share that I have work in the beautiful new Cordella magazine issue 'Becoming'. These pieces are unbearably moving to read so long after having been written. Thankyou Cate and the team of strong women at Cordella for sharing part of my journey in your wonderful journal.


http://www.cordella.org/#/gather/

Rust

We talk of rust and tin
and a five year plan
as rain pounds down on an old convent roof.
I remember you from a time long gone,
on a street at the top of where we both lay claim.

Your face- weathered, misted; beautiful,
haunts the deepest parts of me.
Eyes- bluer than cloudless skies,
greyer than industrial steel; 
majestic in the Autumn haze.

Rust spills out of cracks in the world
and I imagine the rest of our days
spent under decaying sheds,
in the West.

North

Soft, translucent light shoots down from a far-away place
as the landscape turns green, again, slowly.
Pale neon lichen on top of storm-beaten branches
and I remember Vik; snow falling horizontally onto raven black sand.

Soundscapes of swans and deep white stillness
fills up my insides
and I know that it is coming back, once more;
the circle has started to turn.

b r o o k e p a r k

there is a pink-footed light
spilling out of brooke park
against the grey haze of evening. 

you would have been 100 today
and the world has exhaled
softly, 
secretly;in hope.

I smell the rain above this historic city
and wait for the wind to come;
from the flames.

trust

you carry l i g h t 
in your crackled hands
and i wait for morning
to shine its first moon glow
in through the winter
w h i t e
of day

Any storm

Your eyes find cluster constellations

that mine can't quite map, yet.

Smoke fills the evening sky

as Jupiter shines down

on the icy bogside;

december's first night.

Ink on skin finds points

of no return;

moons in every phase to come.

Talk of caravans and lists

on damp paper

fill your kitchen

with hope and confusion.

And then you ask me

for 'Scaffolding',

and I know our wall 

will weather any storm;

any storm that comes.

Pewter

Awakening to the metallic chatter of late starlings
on Rosemount's mossy rooftops,
the night's pewter veil lifts slowly with the fog.

An old garden at the bottom of a seaside hill,
derelict, abandoned; beautiful,
and all around tourists capture loosening
moments on film.

Loneliness crept through my bones
and dragged me into the ivy,
and there he was, sound echoing out
in that folkloric way
-woodsman/ bird; woodpecker.

I allowed the red of him
to reflect out
the last of the scene's winter rays,
before the morning came. 

Bog-bleater

We walk streets- filled with rain and Christmas.
as the fog fades away; gently.
Words-not quite shared, never fully hidden-
hold sway in the bog.
A green kitchen- dark, still, autumnal;
filled with honesty.

I open up old wounds, as the radio plays,
too quiet for our eager ears.
Your eyes-pure/true/bright,
catch me out, as November drizzle
falls softly down,
on heavy coats.