Written back in late 2007, but seems appropriate to the current Irish climates;
This morning, the patio is a chessboard
Drained of fight, a low contrast
Truce of gritty concrete squares
Slick under furniture pieces disarrayed;
Mouldering victims of a thuggish midnight squall.
Brick red when first assembled, inclemency
Has shrunk their ersatz teak to oldbone grey.
I know they've reached the rotting stage.
The last time they were used, not one
But two seats rent that sunny afternoon,
Their rundles detonating under laden
Celtic tiger arses, ambushed.
This poem featured, along with a few others, in issue 2 of Polluto - the 'Apocalypses and Garden Furniture' issue. Now there's a theme and a half - and how bizarre that I actually had a poem which fit nicely!
Friday, August 15, 2008