the curragh of kildare kissed by autumn

dedicated to Lu Yi Hao

a room with a heelers

Afternoon sunlight through the great bay windows in the front room at the old chateau.
I recline in an armchair concentrating furiously on one of the most celebrated novels of English literature.
A Passage To India.
It is ponderous and boring but I am nothing if not persistent. You never know when these things may come in useful.
The motto of the work seems to be: "Don't go into caves with Hindus unless you know them really well." How very odd. Maybe EM Forster had negative experiences in this regard himself. Personally I'd be willing to take a chance.
Anyway, the way ould EM writes, it's impossible even after 200 pages, to tell whether there's any sexing going on or not.
Across from me sits the Mammy.
She is reading a book called Citizen Lord. The book was presented to her with the strongest recommendations by Maisie Baines a neighbour.
The Mammy feels duty bound to read it, for Maisie will be asking questions.
It is an historical novel, based on truth, about a rebel called Lord Edward Fitzgerald who inspired one of Ireland's less successful risings against British rule.
"Are you enjoying it Lil?" I enquire during a lull in the possible sex scenes in A Passage To India.
The aged P shoots me a wild and staring look.
"I wish Lord Edward Fitzgerald would just hurry up and die," sez she fervently.

the bus at five o clock

the engine tingles
the seated nation breathes
joe and michael argue politics
whilst a couple of rural misfits mingle
with some servants of the hebrew god
and not a few atheists
tom and jackie on a lovers tryst
giggle
only the if and why
are yet unknown to them
whilst i
on a journey to kildare
through a dark forgotten corner
of an exploding world
scrawl words
on the fly leaf of a book
for in the coming tempest
such frail things may endure
and monuments of bronze
be rendered dust

a passage to india

Lunch with my brother Doctor Barn in the Chat and Chew cafe in Newbridge.
Sweet Autumnal breeze dusking down Main Street, tousling the heads of myriad school children on their way home for tea.
Light rain and sunny spells.
We're in the window seat looking out.
"I'm thinking of moving to India," I tell the brother.
"You're what?" he exclaims.
"Just thinking about it," sez I.
The brother's expression indicates he would be interested in further explanation.
"I had a dream last week," I tell him. "Not a dream exactly. I woke around 3am. There was a hand in my room."
The brother's face was now a study but he remained silent. His eyes were as wide as they go.
"The hand sort of moved," I recalled softly. "It didn't beckon. It swayed a little. Then it reached towards my face and disappeared. It had Hindu symbols on it."
"You're mad," declared the brother with some warmth. "I'm a doctor. I know about these things."
I shook my head.
"The hand was gone," sez I. "Then I saw a storm. Stretching along the horizon. Then I slept."
"Bloody hell," said the brother. "A storm stretching along the horizon of your bedroom wall. Strange hands waving at you. And you're off to India. It's a dream of course."
"It wasn't a dream," I told him. "But there's more. Last night I was walking the dog through the fields and a phrase from one of my old theatre plays kept popping into my head."
"What was the phrase?" asked the brother.
"Forbidden fruit," sez I.
"Sounds like one of yours alright," quoth he drily enough.
"Anyway," sez I. "Today I switch on the internet. And this Indian girl has a poem on her site. And it's about people who love her. And one of the verses is addressed to someone in a land far away who she calls forbidden fruit."
"Coincidence," sez the brother.
"I don't think it was," sez I.
We quaffed our coffees for a few minutes in silence.
Traffic sighed in the street. The rain had started again. People hurried by. A thought struck me.
"Imagine living in a country," I mused, "where when you want to go outside, people say: Better put on your coat, it's the moonsoon. Imagine that. Wouldn't it be great Barn? You'd see me walking around in the moonsoon with no coat on."
"Then you'd be dead," grinned the brother, drawing on his immense medical skills for an instant prognosis.
I wasn't listening.
"They've got parrots Barn," I murmured. "Living wild. More parrots than you could shake a stick at. I'd surely find a poem there. Maybe even the greatest poem of a generation."
The brother was laughing heartily.
"I give up," he said.
Outside the rain had stopped and the last rays of a gentle September sun were dancing on the glistening road and pavement. At the end of the street I could just make out... eternity.

enchantress

there is no distance in the heart