Thistledown Press

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P align=left>My father could pull a plough
you used to say P align=left> Like a giant he was, with a chest this broad—
your two arms spread wide, to show me
and I'd imagine this colossus of a man
working the field in the rain
cooing to his Gypsy Cob mare while the old ridging plough cut furrows
through the heavy soil P align=left>morphing from a sodden field in Blackwatertown, Co Armagh
collective memories encoded in bone and sinew,
passed down from him to you and to me,
to quark through my hands like premonitions,
and into the clay loam of this dry garden (all of us labouring,
while Rome falls seven times)

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Nothing You Can Carry



Every flower


that opens is a hosanna


a prayer heard


that only needs


be answered






prayer is not asking


not supplication


prayer is dwelling


in the rapture


common as weeds


swarming so close


upon us




beyond the fear of being




by wonder


you are carried


deep within


to the fuse


that made you


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