Summer at Tinnakilly

Poetry from Ireland, by Stephen McGuinness, poetry with a small p.

Writing from poetry with a small p.

Cuckoo spit sits
in the crooks
of stems and stems.

Four bright daisies
afloat above
a quilt of colour.

Some bird, anonymous
pips a warning
of our approach.

The dog sniffs
life, living
under every leaf.

All about us, tall wild flowers,
thistles have taken the field.
Effort sends me
Over stones half buried,
Toes catching ground.
Nothing to see,
But flashes of
Life, fleeing at
My approach.
Birds don’t
Want me here.
Feathers from a kill,
Trapped in dry clumps
Of earth and weeds.
Floating seeds
Seek purpose
Meaning, where
They, once,
Achieved flight.
The golden dry
Field of wheat
Stands tall, ready, open
For the harvester’s blade,
Leaving sharp stubble
To crack under
My heavy boots.
Roots, to be
Ploughed under.
I have seen it a hundred times.
The weakened, culled
from the herd,
pinioned, raked by claws.

A derelict door swinging

View original post 70 more words

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s