On the Shores of Lough Sheelin

                                 

                 

On the shores of Sheelin where the swallows

and the autumn leaves each trial their wings 

before migration, I sit alone on a bench 

made for two, and see a world bounded 

by pairs each sharing a single horizon.

Later, in the hotel dining room, I bolt 

down my meal as couples and families eye 

the unoccupied seats at my table, frustration 

and disdain.

I know the swallows migrate to North Africa, 

so why shouldn't I take a Ryanair flight, and join

them there? A handful of Euro, coupled with buckets

of dirty fuel; burning the bodies of the 

deceased to project pointless flights, fleeing

to another season, another space, with neither 

grace nor beauty. This should not be our way. 

No.

I will wait here and trust in their promise to return,

trust in the scent of wild garlic and the lion's mane 

of bluebell, trust in the sequence of colour spelt out

long before words were saved. 

We must believe in both the solitary and commune 

bee, and in all those who 'rouse from their slumber 

before their reserves have finally waned, and I trust 

in this winter lockdown, where candle buds 

still flicker with life, and greens give way to old. 

                                                                    ©niall oconnor 2014/24