Cold fireworks.
we came out of the car,
sleepy and falling asleep,
lazy as coal nuggets
rolling from torn
open coalsacks. 1am – stars out
and all over leitrim. wonderful;
like looking through windows
to christmas and seeing the trees.
I remember being 8
and my parents
pushing bedward. We’d come
from the movies,
it was winter and a city boy –
I’d never expected
such sky. sky
over countryside
clear as water,
sparkling
like water. as big as my parents,
big as horses and god
and big buildings.
I went inside
still spinning, my life
doing cartwheels. I remember
“cold fireworks”. I remember
other things.
The handyman
to lay out
some phrase
clean as tiles
in a bathroom.
something
to be torn out
when someone
moves in.
Making footprints.
sky empty, all clear
and wide open,
no colour – the colour
of walls in a short-
rental flat. the world
a cracked egg and a cold
pouring downward,
the yolk sticking hard
to the pan and the tines
of a fork. we were walking
the park. we were drinking;
making footprints together
which sank into frost-
stiffened grass. fallen
leaves lying there, crisping
beneath us, as chipped
and as brittle as used
china cups. on the ponds
the ducks stood about
looking quite foolish,
confused in their tottering
iced afternoons.
pausing a moment
and drinking our wine,
throwing sticks in the warm
joy of winter. we listened
to whistles as they slid
on the surface,
going end over end
over end. they could
have been sirens
which played in the distance,
whooping out dopplers
and going away.
Illustration : Paul Reshmi