Some days no one comes.

I meditate like an old sage,

glad for the conversation of wind, 

the Willow’s back scratch and

the moss boot cuffs. 

 

The days when they came,

I remember a summer coat, 

celebrated in snowcem white,

concrete tall and plastered plumb. 

 

Those were the days when

young boys leaned, fingers clung, 

with boots dug in well worn ledges.

Daredevils tightroped in wobbled joy, 

and trapezed from a sturdy Oak.

 

When old men sidled to intimate huddles 

on Fair days, with concertinaed sheep on hemp. 

When young lover’s lust, dared

by shifting their hearts nearer the edge. 

 

Between days I tick like a clock in an empty room.

I flail like a sail inhaling the breeze.

I peel varicose paint from sun dried cracks,

damp beneath, like liver spots, betraying my age.

 

 

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*AN BALLA BÁN - Irish for The White Wall