The Halfpenny Bridge

from Change in the Wind.

May be subject to Copyright

Georgian iron and treacherous timbers,

slime covered and slipping

                                       up

                            and down:

a pox on the ferryman’s earnings

by those who dare to cross

from mean street to Venetian passage . . .

this is the Ha’penny bridge.

Leaning on both North and South

owned by neither, both,

a no-man’s land

twixt Norse and Brit,

chained to the granite quays.

On its crest,

its pinnacle,

the luckless Lord Mayor of Dublin;

the toll gatherer-beggar,

with his bowl forever sits,

selling poverty for a pittance,

and redemption for avoiding eyes.

The royal barge

the chieftains byre

bananas from Bolivia

they all have passed

beneath this throne

this crown of Anna Livia.

 ©Copyright Niall O'Connor

Bookshops stocking Change in the Wind in Dublin:

The Winding Stair (Ormond Quay)
Connolly Books (Temple Bar)
Scribbles (Drumcondra)
Magner's (Santry)
Books Upstairs (College Green)

The Homecoming

from Change in the Wind, a poetry collection 2013.

Down into the valley we drove

down to where the waters still roared;

the weight of surge

throwing itself hypnotically

over the weir, brief dance, then on again

never a backward glance.

Down from the fairy mountain:

a stream through the rushey glen,

down from where the banshees cry

past hawthorns twisted,

drops of blood for Christmas wren.

Down through the famine fields of stone

down from where the rag tree stands,

down from where each rock that leaves

the settling pile, takes with it

the memory of a placing hand.

Down into the valley we drove

down past graveyards of yore

down to where the river’s roar

and mind’s eye become one,

time's passage finally undone.

©Copyright Niall OConnor 2013

Gathering the Kindling

After the shifting spring storms

beneath the sleeping branches

a mother gathers kindling

to maintain an ancient fire.

Two children trail, and a third

lies wrapped on wheels. All in pink

they dutifully mimic

the gathering, heaping their

sticks into a tangled pyre

unconsciously passing

this ancient test. The mother

gathers left-handed, fingers

varnished stiff, and scissored

about smoking cigarette,

cursive body in worn blue

denim. Deceived, she forgets 

their task and plays, roles shifting

from harvesting to the hunt

and each hides in turn behind

the unmoved trees, and awaits

discovery, and the threat

of continued survival, 

where only lives, like dried sticks

are gathered up, from beneath 

the blossom trampling feet.
©Copyright Niall OConnor 2013

From Change in the Wind.
76 pages of great poetry.

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