Through windows dimly lit

Burren-grey, the sky through sky lights

is cigarette ash smashed across July.

The towns pass in half-eyed glimpses,

Inishannon, Bandon and Clon,

each address in its neon gown of auburn

as evening lights up and takes another drag.

 

Correct me if I'm wrong, but these roads

have widened but the journeys made longer.

These trips, these ritual returns, back down

where, as teenagers, the men we hated drove

Mercs and we hitching between the showers.

 

I remember the power cuts, the dark nights

through windows dimly lit by candles as wind

kept the boats tied up and the pockets dry.

I remember the colour of the grass after the

fish boxes were moved, watched the sky for

signs; helicopters from the trees come autumn.