Ballykea

 

 

Flies buzz flicking, flapping

ears and tickle noses,

washed wet with slowly

curling bovine tongues.

 

The summer scent of haws

drift rich from a ditch

full of brackish brown

water frothing with foam

of quivering frog spawn.

 

The mush of moving turf

under foot,

marsh land, dry in may but

wet again by june.

 

The tug of tuft on rubber

Boots,

the slip of sodden socks.

Pink ankles rubbed to

glistening pink of raw

clean flesh.

 

Cowslips part the hollow

bars of reeds and sedge,

to reach up to blue and

gold, holding so a portion

of the sky.

 

Sharp bladed flags of wild

iris with sunshine blooms,

shelter nests and speckled

eggs of black moorhens.

 

An Island pitched high

In ruined plans of draining

work.

Mounds of clay and wealth

abandoned.

 

There silver birch stretch

like narrow waist girls

yawning in the newness of

the morning.

 

A pair of swan claim the

rise.

New king and queen

beneath the skies

of three fields that grow

rough grass and weeds

in the marshland of

Ballykea.

 

 

-Dave Kavanagh.

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