Leaf in Autumn

Leaf in Autumn

The gutters turned to streams,
torrents raging through the streets
as grey rain beat down on us
as the wind whipped us
as the sky turned dark.
As I clutched my mother's hand
I saw a leaf charge the rapids,
white water of the drains,
to spend one moment suspended
in the eye of the storm.
And I followed it as it journeyed
through the streets
out of sight but never out of mind.
I follow it still, when the rain howls
and the wind catches my fancy
blowing it where it will
Somewhere out there, it wanders still.

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In Dublin, on an Autumn Day

Written this morning in the Stephen's Green as my one year old slept happily in his Bugaboo, all wrapped up against the Autumn bite. There is nowhere quite as pleasant as the Green on a quiet Autumnal morning.



In Dublin, it is a treat
to find a seat in the Stephen's
Green
Near the fountains
on Constance's Side
Where if you sit quiet and still
On an Autumn Morning
Chill in the air, and Leaves falling
A robin might appear
at your feet
Under the seat, where careless
Tourists
Spill crumbs from O'Briens
And you watch the punks and goths
flock
Followed by the suits and shoppers
And a park keeper passes
And nods, hello, the ducks in the pond
Rising.

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Beauty at Dusk

Beauty at Dusk

The room is stilled
dimmed by evening light through
shuttered blinds
A perfect evening, summer spring
treees laced with early leaves
bright fields, sunlight on windowglass
an empty room
and silence


the brightness of the dusk is
blinding - more glaring than noon in dust
and the silence splinters with shrill throated birds
and distant laughter
til the laughter and the song seem silent too
part of the peace that oppresses this room

the beauty is too perfect
too real for me

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.

Crossings

Some roads
lead to highlands, mountains
grand vistas
and some from one side of mystery
to another.
Some show you continents
but many
simply the choice between
open field and safe
dark
forest.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.

The Swan

All angular beauty
and ruffled lines
curious in approach
white breasted downy apparition

Closer to your beauty
than before; allowed approach
a temple of wonder
your unique glory

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Pooka in the Summer Sun

A pooka grazes peacefully
where the river
meets the sea
In the ruins of a castle,
watched by me.
A moment of enchantment
where the city meets the green
and I enjoy the magic
as I watch, unseen.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.

Encounter

Encounter

Light and dark at play
across the dappled water
I hear the frost break
underfoot, like glass.

Horned and hooved, pawing
at the frozen ground, antlered.
Lowering crown, challenging,
playfully I think. A forest Pan.

Breath suspended in tendrils on
icy air; we stare transfixed.

Reluctantly, you turn from me
relinquish me, to the gathering dusk.
Darkened skies pass across the plains
and rain turns to snow in the forests.

All trace gone except in my minds eye
and the grand look of your own.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.

Night Chorus

This poem was inspired by nights in Roundwood, Wicklow; watchng the crows and rooks perform their nightly ritual, the "black breasted flight" of dusk.
When searching for a metaphor to represent that emotional moment, the laying to rest, the cycle that drives us forward, night to dawn, this image, burnt into my mind over incalcuable summer evenings took over.
As it did, it carried the poem into some areas of its own
The gravel paths of the interlopers/ darkened by the cloud of dark wings/ stirred by the shadow of the future /The reminder that death precedes life/

Currently available in Where The Hazel Falls
Anthology of Modern Irish Verse, Electric Publications



Night Chorus


Across the last plains
under leaden skies,
the ground peat-brown beneath;
Turf cutters pausing to point
at the summers last black-breasted flight,
across the dark eddies and whirlpools,
the silver line of the river beneath;
Over the wild heathers of the stone hills
from the Cairns of the west
to the graves of the silent east.
A black sunset, the death of a new day remarked.

Shrill and defiant in calling
the passage of the long evening mourned.
The gravel paths of the interlopers,
darkened by the cloud of dark wings,
stirred by the shadow of the future.
The reminder that death precedes life,
The smoke of the fires rising slowly;
the wheel of the wing on the turn.
The veil drawing over the midlands,
the song of the night slowly silenced,
the call of the dusk borne away.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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