Painting the brilliance of sky. My core touching the softness of elder bark in a frantic, static shock world of arc bright white. The wind up here is sharp and pungent, redolent of hops and burnt grain and diesel fumes. My tongue craves surf and salt and the tang of marsh and mud. My nose the clean stink of razor fish and clams. Mouth tasting in anticipation, chowder and pan fried mackerel.
I am blinded by reflections, glass bouncing a million tiny suns in a billion shattered directions. Men sitting on lunchtime pales and struts. Rivet herders, city fellows that sing songs of Philadelphia streets and fast cars, scarlet molls and gangster rappers. Nothing here of sheep on green banks or black and white wisps chasing whistles and fleece back to cirrus framed barns or the silence of my land.
The lemon blue of the dollar clashes with the hardness of geometry, uprights blinding sight of rivers and lakes. The world seen through a matrix of welders art and rivet guns and bolts as wide as Mary’s waist.
Men up here walk on the edge of nothing, whistling suicide as they ride girders through swaths and slashes of turquoise sky.
The metal road heaves and all I feel beneath my feet is the song of deck boards. And a prayer whispering home, calling exiles back to the quietness of a lovers arms.
Dave Kavanagh lives and writes in a small fishing village in North County Dublin. His work includes poetry, prose & short fiction. Dave has had work published online and his poetry has recently been included in ‘Poetry Soup’ (International Poetry Foundation) and ‘Indelible Poets’.