from my window

a fire is dying in the night
upon the bare and windswept heath
shadows flare with sparks awry
tangle dervish in a wreath
above the ashes of my life
a fire is dying in the night
as soon the blood within me dies

Stopping At The Traffic Lights

Bright clear cold November afternoon. I am stopped at the traffic lights in the town of Kilcullen. There comes a frantic tapping on the side window of my car.
Turning I behold Nuala Egan and Noreen Dowling, two local ladies, peering in at me. They are in a state of unusual levity.
Indeed they are laughing fit to burst, apparently at my good self.
It is most odd.
I wind down the window.
"We're not afraid of you anymore," sez Nuala cheerfully.
I digest this surreal greeting with calm dignity.
"We heard your humour column is finished" explains Noreen.
The two are laughing again. Laughing at that?
"Now we can say what we like to you," enthuses Nuala.
Noreen nods.
"Without worrying you're going to quote us," sez she.
Ah.
So that's it.
The lights turn green.
I drive away without a word to either of them.
Well, well, well, I'm thinking to myself. Just when they thought it was safe to go back in the water.

what Moses saw