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SWANS ON THE ROAD (first published in The SHOp, Schull, Co. Cork)

There were swans on the road when I woke at dawn,
A road the swans had mistaken for a river, black water gleaming,

Or perhaps it wasn’t water at all, or a road, but the dark morning sky,
And what I had taken for swans were small white clouds drifting by,

While all the time you slept inside the darkened room, your head
A shadow on the snowy pillow, your beating heart calling me back to bed,

But when I went to lie beside you the sheets were icy cold,
And the sound I had mistaken for your beating heart

The beating wings of the swans rising from the road
Flying off before the gathering storm.

FAIR HAIRED BOY (first published in Cyphers, Dublin)

Watch yourself out there, my dear, with your fair hair
And translucent eyes and skin as white as a shroud,
A ghost of the child you once were, my love,
All the flesh and blood and bone of you gone,
Only the spirit left to roam, and no one left
Who knows how to speak to the dead.

One morning in Glasgow, after an all night music session after the Jimmy McHugh Memorial concert, there were Swans on the road between the hotel where I stayed and the Gartnavel hospital.

Fair haired boy takes its title from the name of an Irish reel, as does Far From Home, another poem in the book.