Matt Mooney

The clearness of a dream
I had in bed last night
Has dimmed at dawn-
I'm awake and looking west,
...

Goodbyes at the open front door
On a Sunday morning in Summer;
An aeroplane shines in the sun;
At home I can learn about solitude.
...

What’s that?
That sound from the wood!
Does that bare tree complain a lot?
It does not!
...

Scents of the Summer, incense to his senses,
The boy walks barefoot most of the way.
By hills of furze bushes above the soft bog,
Though ever so slowly the river flows free
...

A tall man bends low,
While there is time,
To pick up a lost coin
Lying in the bus lane,
...

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Sliabh Aughty, my own mountain mine,
Rhododendroned ridge ever there for me;
Fields ascending higher as I go
From Ballylee to Loughrea's lake:
...

She closes the door as she steps outside
At the end of her day's designing;
Stooping she greets a cat on the street
Whose bushy tail it exceeds him.
...

The morning sky has a crest of a moon
Sitting up over my window's horizon,
Tall conifers compete with chimney stacks,
Castle top turrets and white office blocks;
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High up over nearby Bantry Bay
Nails are hammered into wood
On the town library roof above us:
Maybe staccato accompaniment
...

Dark metro tunnel: unending unknown
With no bright promise of the breaking day:
Not a place for stopping for too long.
...

That Sunday afternoon,
Out on the verdant lawn
On the verge of the wood
An alien stood:
...

Stopped in our tracks
We stood in the wood
Seeing her pass before us:
She was the badger black and grey
...

About you Mike I could write a book
If I was worthy to put you into words;
Yourself could put it better I believe:
Death has left us at a loss without you.
...

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I'm up to my eyes in apples,
Lizard like upon the trunk;
Heavy branches to be shaken,
Fishing for the furthest fruit:
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When the light was white from Tilley lamps
And the boat to Holyhead was overladen,
The postman was a sight for pure delight
As casually from his bag he took the letter-
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The merry widow in her home,
So proud of her tidy residence,
Hostess to all who rambled in-
No age barrier or code of entry.
...

Eyes mesmerized by long musical fingers
Reaching out across the centuries’ divide
To draw from the wellsprings of the past,
Divining the pure music that he inherited
...

Ceist agam orm féin:
Ó chrann atá lom
Cad é an síor gearán
Sa choill atá láimh liom?
...