High Nellies!

High Nellies!

Idling times

High Nellies/Laracor

The coefficients of drag
This way or that,
Plotting the itinerary
Salient points.

Dustings...
Of French chalk
And petroleum jelly
Withered leaves
And the Sturmey-Archers,
Boneshakers!

A Sunday
Up in Jones's Road
Getting to know you.
The Backs going back
And the roar of the crowd!
Amhrán na BhFiann
Out with the big fellas
The emergencies,
Patched up along
The Boyne.

And the "Bona Fides"
Trading names
Like Raleigh and Rudge
And Hercules.
Fined five shillings
The short cut
Home.

And Glory be to God!
But the postmistress models
Sheltering in the rain,
High Nellies
And the strawberry
Boaters.

The tales of the tape!
Votaries of the
Road!


Frank Murphy.

Border Talk

Border Talk

Present company excepted

Cavan/Leitrim
From Google Images

It was infants out
Patchy rain
Drizzle...

Plough lands
Measured out
To rood or perch.
The swig on a porter bottle,
Higglers,
Enquiring of the road,
Or timber down
Pups for sale!

A man was never poor
If he had a pig
A sow,
Or the pincer
Grip!

Throw your eye over
The optics,
The trig points,
The Gunter's chain,
A brolly was your
Only man.

The blur
Of declarations
"Who'd be asking?"

Clock watching
The shadows
Creeping over the floor
The aspidistra
Was leaning towards
The sun.

Frank Murphy.

The Rising Tide

The Rising Tide.

I own a tree somewhere,

From Google Images

up in Monaghan.

That and the iodine tablets
that the government gave me.
Any number of frights.

I was thinking of looking
it up sometime.
Make a day of it.
Get the weather reports.

And the lie of the land
maybe the hard road.
The truckstops,
talking of
the rising tide,
and the troubles,
the cuckoos,
they'd be changing
their tune soon.

August is a cruel
Month.

Frank Murphy.

The Deep

The Deep

From Google Images

It was hard to fathom it
Swinging the lead.
Sounding out
On the contours
The best approach.

Looks could be deceiving
If you catch the drift
Still waters.

And the ripple effects
Concentric circles
Spiralling out
Crashing on the sandbars
The bluffs.

Rough enough
Clearing the decks.

Allowing for the wind
And yardage
Peering into
The murky depths
The grooves.

But, any port
In a storm.

It doesn't do
To set your sights
Too high
Shooting fish
In a barrel.

Frank Murphy.