What shall I tell?

And what shall I tell 
My mother of this house 
Where her husband died? 
That white roses bud 
In the street to the south. 
That the wind is in the north. 
And the back kitchen 
Chimney smokes. 
That the sloe bush 
Glistens like Christmas 
In Paugeen's garden. 
And somewhere 
Down in Africa 
The swallows 
Are ready to fly. 
 

A Language the stranger
knows too well
 

In the dollar fanned bay 
The surface only slightly ruffles. 
Clare hills smug with plastic 
Shrug their mock concern. 
The stone front walls 
Collude to hide 
The cement mixer mentality 
In the heart. 
In Conamara four 
I heard the Celtic tiger snore. 
In Conamara five 
The cat runs out of lives. 
 

Leaving Signs 

Like a bird 
Ready to journey 
He listened for the wild 
Cry of his ancestors 
Grow in the silence. 

Now prey 
To the doctor's promptings 
He walked 'round 
The house in Coilleach 
To put feeling 
into dull feet.

But his wings 
Preened perfect 
Were ready to fly 
And the strong call 
Of his fathers 
Beckoned him home.