Little Meadows Of The Sky

Small days lift in the big world. Little thoughts in the evening the people coming home. The eyes looking out at the layers of light and the stories down below. Down there through the clouds, light caresses the beautiful. The cream, the blue, the jet streams behind. Drinking coffee in the sky and artists looking out. All up there in the high, it’s cold and it’s cool and clear with the sun. Flight FR509 took off and leveled in the blue, blue above and black. There’s dog hill road below and people playing ball. The work men laying roads and sheep and birds and all. Flies sleep in the cold air, frozen like their friends and the warm sun thaws them as fall like leaves to the ground. Days of walking, walking with no destinations. Walking through town and back again and not knowing where you were. Up there in the clouds there’s people, cloud people crossing and going over head. Through the night they travel and head the east or west. Sun follower leave in the mornings and black birds sing them their way. The seagulls sit on the wings of the planes and try and guide their way. Who cares where the pilot goes he flies in every way. Adventure of flight in the new sky and sitting in a chair. Head down on the inside, but eyes looking out. The boys hand that was held wonders the estates and falls down now alone. Down there in the hollows and drowning under the bridge, the swallows never came that year they never flew under the bridge.

Light Shows Deep

Morningless smiles on the early streets. The people make their way home. The birds still hanging onto the sleeping branch and watching with one eye. The cans of deep night footballed down the streets and goals that were never achieved. Hope is in the air, the early air that’s rising. This is a new day, a day that was hoped for. It’s coming you know the sun and the light, to shine in your life and 

into your cold corners. Light and warmth shining in the shadows of night. Derelict men longing to be hugged and as they hug the bottle. Warm is the morning from beneath 15 tog, toast is the morning smell and coffee in the breeze as well. Healing hands walk the up old court roads and head for the mount above, where castles watch from towers of old and memories of child. Children who played these fields and built little huts in the hedgerows, that called out in the night to deafened ears and walked on there own through teens. Cows bow their heads as you pass now a move across the day. They watch the city morning and they feel the morning pain. Up rise the starlings in their magic flock and down go the starlings as they dance the weaving show. Hold it the morning, the light shows and the magic. Even in the pain and cold, it’s real to feel the heart and soul. The streets that are empty now and the streets that are cold, woman and men who lived here, loved the corners and hugged the streets.

Layers

Through the fog the layers of light are revealed. The mountain stands like a giant towering out of the blue. Like layers of layout paper the big reveal, the mountain isn’t a mountain it’s a hill. Cows watch as you walk by gates and overs. Downs and furry glens, footstep through the first lights. First sounds as the day breaks the chirping sparrow calls, the black bird lets out a sound, the robin and the wren. Fox calls in the late night and people head for bed, people with soar heads, soar the hills high now. Eagle call to younger one, she beckons on the hunt. The vole that doesn’t move is watching from below, the eagles know that they stay still but watch for movements slow. Through town the river returns and slips along the wall. It combs the sea weed and brings the sea into the mouth of town. It rinses the teeth of town and washes out the voice. It leaves again on turn tide and dribbles down the edge. Bus watchers look at the people watching people. The statutes still haven’t moved even though they keep still. Still in the mothers bed, and forbidden movement of cells. The boy like a prisoner and frozen in a hell. Tears drop on his own and fall onto the floor. They crawl the floor boards and answer the days, the wicked with hard dried canes, the striking of warm legs, the young one who never grew, right from that day. Cars and walkers standing still and cold eyes wait as well. The dogs in the street always knew that the tears that carry swell and the empty and the cold ones who were tripped and then they fell.

But the light comes around again, it’s never far away. It stills the morning in the lens of the photographic eye and zooms in on the details of ones life. It’s ok to let the guard down and see a bit of hell, it’s good to tear the wall down and let the light in as well. That’s how it shines and that’s how it lives. We enter this world from a dark place with only sound. Older, when we fall and hit the floor the dark returns again. The dark is safe as well. Without night there is no day and the waking of the birds, when the light comes you’ll know it’s there because you’ll see the world brand new, the leaves will fall in front of your eyes and the mouse will run across the wooded floor of the leafy grounds of forest. Downy owls with sleepy eyes and voles will sleep and tell. Children will tell you secrets and hearts will beat with sound. Ears will listen to peoples cries and listen to each other tell. The time will bring the wind and blow away the clouds, the sun will shine on downy days and beam on happys too.

Bring Me In

Cream buildings and light of gold, the light that creeps along the morning walls. Into your bedroom just above the curtain the shadows play and move, like a film projection and the story of a day. Outside people walk, they talk of autumn walks. The color of the leaves is color and the yellow and the deep. The falling time from tree to ground the tree is in reverse. It sucks the sugars back from th

e leaves to survive the bitter cold. The old woman who collects sticks back break in the sun, the twigs and basket full with wood and broken heart for warm hearth.
The streets of wet day reflect the life, the cars, the buses and pedestrians feet. Reflection of the sky and grey and holding on below. Under the street the water drips and trickles down the wall of basement street. Down here where light rairley comes and plants that seem to grow, it’s a place where thoughts, down to the broken man who lives in a box below. We all have a box below and visit sometime. And watch and wait for the rain to stop and hold our shoulders up.
From beneath the bridge the liffey slides and people never watch. The mullet swim slowly along with eyes on deep and sky. The beds are soft where the fish lay their heads and their dreams are long as well. Dreams of shoals and dark dark deep and friends to follow on. The color of the sea gets darker as the tears fall from the sky. The boy that walks with father and hand, the footsteps on the playful sands. Ice creams and sticky leather seats and canned drinks of cold.

Cold Hill Clear

I can see the streams and their clear, , clear splashes. The drops in slow motion, , I slow them down and see through them with my eye. The moss is thick there on the rocks and thats the place where broken hearts fell. Walking back across the hill, the old man stills the day. He says hello with his mind and I greet that with a smile. The black birds wing the

sky and the sheep warm the furry fields of the long glen of cree. At the end where violent waters fall the boys once played and camped. Tented under starry nights and navy colored sky, milkyways it’s way across and lasted in dream until day. Sleepy bags and mellow dreams the music of our youth. The times spent watching still and peace by rivered downs.
Towns and feet and cars are old and printed roads of rubber. Oily streets slippy when wet and caution to the driver. The drivers of the city wait, they queue down at the docks. The steering wheel lives down there behind the cranes and seagull flocks. The engine room is huge and you, and seats for all to travel. Dublin is small and big and sea is blue and brown. Seagull flies so gently above and glides round like a game. The childs hand taken by grandfather, walk to see the ships again. Sand in the hulls for Guinness trucks and hands, and bottled the booze and gripping the glass of night and tired and angry told. Children who ran and hid and didn’t come back for their tea, hiding under the lime trees and hands that covered ears.
The old man walks the Abbey streets and srtrolls down Henry with ease. He stands on the corner of Talbot and listens to seagulls overhead. He watches people with their false heads on their shoulders. Beneath the streets the soldiers still meet and talk of how they’ll win. They drink the porter that trickles down and watch the sun beams through the thick glass basement covers. Cold it may be in the under street the warm soldiers call and weep. The elderly hands that feel that walls and the older that was built. The sands in between and mortar still setting and they’ll catch you one of these days. The blocks and bricks and window sills that stack up over head, make the city a home and fun place to roam and child hood footstep memory.