The Accident
Wrought iron sunrises rattled on the faces
of gates. I felt lifted by a gust of air,
my bicycle wheels humming
as they flew through roadside leaves
so full of ardour in their colours
I couldn't think of them dead – besides,
they shuffled, spun and darted,
as if with work of their own to do;
and Spring was a merry mood
I would fall under as they led the way,
having the whole world to say
about no such thing as clean breaks,
only the running into, remnants
that become a blending, so to continue.
Coppices
Thunder and lightning happen
inside the house and out.
Fuses blow – small, sustainable
for now. We keep
our heads, lose our hearts
until the last let go. Absorb
melancholy all unwittingly
while watching cloud shadow
drift across a ceiling;
draw pleasure from sunshine
impressing on a chimney breast
its own dancing animal.
Nothing's static; brickwork
shifts; moss and dribs of rain
nibble the roof; rust
tarnishes the precious things
we want to keep forever.
Love won't save us,
nor faith in machines, nor fine
strategies of forgetting.
Still we hold to thoughts
of continuance, though we know
these gleaming appliances
will topple and wildings
nuzzle and skitter among them.
We see ourselves
then, springing from coppice
to coppice, rhapsodic
amid a ruined kitchen's
damp, weed-stitched heaven.
Patrick Deeley
is a poet, memoirist and children's writer, from Loughrea originally
but now living in Dublin. Recently he has had poems published in The Rialto, The London Magazine and
Staying Human, an
anthology edited by Neil Astley. His eighth collection with
Dedalus Press, Keepsake, is due for publication in March 2024. His awards include the 2001 EilĂs Dillon Award, the 2014 Dermot
Healy International Poetry Prize, and the 2019 Lawrence O'Shaughnessy
Award.