Mícheál McCann

2 Poems

Grief Jog

The Lagan is lying low
and its pocked mud banks
–in the moon–could slowly
turn to craters. This vision: thanks

to uneven pounding of tarmac
by wee trainers that’ve had it,
and a fringe firmly lacquered
to a forehead. Everything is shit.

And I could easily complain
about the elusiveness of this ‘rhythm’
the good ones have; I look gremlin-like, slain,
couldn’t save him.

Cutting along as much as I can, up
and around the gloomy perimeter of the park.
You smell juniper.
The trees are disquiet in the dark.

It has been January since even
you left (now March)
and a mediocre run in deep evening
is all I can manage.

The hospital rises
out of the pukey water
like a honeycomb earringed spire
all reflected back in the calm river

and the quiet of 9p.m. on a Monday,
bar the wind to the trees
and all the runners running,
breathing in, and bounding home.


Comments are closed.