I am soil

words emerge long

before meaning. the poems

are plantpots, not plants.

I think I am soil – I am not

the direction of sunlight.

that's you – I just type.

it leans over 

where you're

sitting down.

October

young boys dragging

timber through

dublin from outside

the markets. dodging the cops

who patrol on the main

streets and tramlines.

they are planning

a fire somewhere

vacant. sparks will

go up – god approves.

Heavy bags

the sunlight is an old-

fashioned lightsource. something for photographs 

of soft men with serious expressions. the colour

of a banknote in your pocket in the wash. 

I walk in the garden, watch birds on roofs

and electric lines which hang

like weak shoulders 

beneath heavy bags.

which reach for every building

over back gardens

like a hand to an off bedside lamp.