Baby

 Baby in a bassinet

Baby in a bassinet

Hardly two weeks old

Stretching out her little frame

Discovering her fingers. 

Five a.m. - the witching hour

Only baby and me

Watching ancient movies

Followed distractedly. 

The dogs are sleeping on the couch

Somehow conscious they must kept still

While baby makes her little sounds

Creates a little thrill. 

She’s battling the reflux

The acid in her tummy

When she cries all hands on deck

To help her sleep starved mummy. 

She will grow out of this

In weeks or months for sure,

In the meantime we treasure

The precious moments when she’s dozing. 

Every day a baby victory

After a traumatic delivery 

Everyone has rallied round

It’s when we value family. 

It takes a village to raise a child

We help out as best we can

Keeping vigil as we did before

Her mother in the eighties. 

The steps before the baby steps

When she lies so helpless 

The infant so dependent 

On her doting parents. 

The time will come when she in turn

Will care for her little bairn

Down from the attic will come the bassinet

And the cycle begins again. 

Over?

 Omicron over?

Could Omicron be the parting shot?

The last fracas between men and Covid?

We’re scared to whisper victory

When it’s made us fools before. 

And yet do we sense that science

Has gained the upper hand?

While the plague runs out of strength

The allies may soon overcome. 

Deep in the trenches this Christmas

We take refuge with our loved ones

While bullets fly above our heads 

And relief seems as distant as before. 

But come the New Year comes new hope

Built on the solid building blocks

Of vaccines and of drugs 

To release us into the sun again. 

This time next year will we remember 

These times of awkward greetings

Avoiding friend and neighbor

As we celebrate being human?

Our exile finished, our return enjoyed 

In sporting grounds and noisy clubs 

With hugs and kisses, the touch and feel

Of skin on skin and lips on lips?

Ojalá.   

Glenageary

 Glenageary (Gleann na gCaorach). 

The valley facing towards the sea

Where once the white sheep grazed

Facing towards the morning light

Falling back to mountain night

Standing sentry over granite piers

The outstretched arms of Dun Leary

Comfy in suburban clothes

Steeped in history and times before

The builders came and built the roads

That mark our houses and our homes

Polite and pleasant neighbors

Overseeing tidy gardens. 

Once preserve of Church of ireland 

Now home to all and sundry

Mercifully saved from ostentation

From private roads with mansions. 

Middle class without the airs

At ease and comfy in its skin

With a necklace of neighbors

Glasthule, Sandycove and Dalkey. 

Not forgetting Sallynoggin

Affordable and pleasant

And friendly Monkstown 

Demarked by unknown boundaries. 

A melting pot of workers

Teachers and plasterers

Dentists and bankers

Electricians and managers.  

A suburban Bermuda Triangle 

Where many enter and few will leave

Content to dwell between hills and sea

To see out our lives in this vale. 

The old bar stool

 The old bar stool

The pint of plain’s his drink

Followed by a chaser

Three or four each evening 

As regular as a postman. 

The doctor would advise

Against this alcohol 

But he hasn’t seen the doctor

Since he cut his knee aged five. 

The bar man, solid fellow

Pulling pints for forty years

Whose father was a lookout

For Paddy, daily drinker

He’d bring the wife around

On Sunday for a drink

A sweet medium sherry

Would last her all the evening. 

He stepped well clear of politics,

He didn’t keep opinions 

He reasoned the room was full already

Of certainties from wealth to stealth. 

Besides he often reasoned

His views wouldn’t tilt the spinning world

Nor check excesses in faraway lands

Or in nearby Leinster House. 

His handsome stomach spread 

Over many days and years

Propping up the counter

Untroubled by fashion or comment. 

We’ll raise a drink this Christmas

Since the pubs are closed

To Paddy beloved of the Anvil Bar

Til we meet again in the New Year. 

Erin

 Erin go brágh

Erin go brágh, Erin forever

Born in twenty twenty one 

A century lies ahead of you

Ten decades in Shankill. 

Welcomed with love and prayers

As you clasped onto life

And doctors fought to save you

Precious bundle of this special season

When all babies are remembered 

And cherished as we do not take for granted

The miracle of life this Christmas 

And in the years that stretch ahead. 

A tiny fighter in intensive care

Your first toys machines and monitors 

That whirr and turn to help you

To come out strong and thriving. 

It’s Christmas time when magic’s real 

And miracles available

To those who seek them 

Believing in the common good. 

A time for presents by the Christmas tree

In the baby wards of hospitals

Where love is served each day 

With every infant meal. 

17/12/21

December 15th

 December 15th

December fifteenth, two days after Erin

Appeared to the world with some entrée

Grateful to doctors and to the nurses

Who saved with skill her life that day. 

We enter the week of the shortest days

The longest nights and the lowest sun

That barely clears the damp garden wall

And blinds the cars on Killiney Hill road. 

December thirteenth, my mother’s birthday

Now Erin’s too, a day to celebrate

Separated by a hundred years of wait

Same country still but whole worlds apart. 

We look  forward to the homecoming 

To the Christmas tree in Corbawn 

What will she make of the neighbors igloo?

The world of wonder lit up next door. 

The champagne’s on ice for not much longer

The beer’s on tap in the gleaming room outside 

The bunting goes up, touching the ceiling

Bring on the chaos, to the sounds of bells pealing. 

Four o clock sunset

 Four o clock sunset 

Four o click sunset

As December moves in

Counting the days

Til the season turns round. 

Sweet precious light

Escaping out west

Filling the sky 

With orange ‘fore night 

Sweet precious days all the sweeter

We treasure the hours and minutes

With lights that brighten home windows

Now that Christmas comes nearer.