Four Poems

Holiday Home

Pre-fabricated, four rooms and a view
of haycocks and white horses on the bay.
Deck chairs slumped into the flattened grass
edged with vetch and shards of broken glass.
A bed-settee, a fridge in the living room,
the angelus and tea's old news and spam.
Towels that never dried, togs on the wall,
three swims a day, hair always thick with salt.
Trips to the village for water, milk and gin
and scampi in the hotel now and then.
Bunk beds, one wardrobe, lino on the floors,
rusted window-locks and swollen doors.
Rough rods for fishing mackerel off the rocks,
the Naomh Eanna, watched for, twice a day, for luck.
Last year's novels, dog-eared on the shelf,
...