Dark turf
The breeze stirred ferns on the high bank.
I watched you drop down the layers of Cloneen bog,
then another spit into half-opened fist
before sléan sliced down, slurping out turf,
heaving them over your right shoulder,
away from the heart.
I clutch their sogginess against my navy jumper,
don’t drop them, you say, as I slapped them onto the trolley
before tossing out, while you take the red and white
Carroll’s cigarette packet from your collarless shirt pocket.
December night when we laid you out,
drinking hot whiskey, as turf flames from
our open fire mottled your parchment hands.
Chimney sparks spoke to chattering stars.
Young
I consider my son
who sugars into
brilliant evening light.
He bends towards spring,
our sap-fed buds
will bleed their sweet roses
with thorns.
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- Two poems by John Noonan - June 30, 2022