2 Poems

and we were in the mountains

or what we thought were mountains. in Ireland you take

what mountains you can get. and it was wicklow; near

some unnamed lakes. the earth

spongy with heather, and full of those trees

grown for lumber, and some broken telephone poles - no nature

anywhere. during the hot first afternoon

we drank the beer we'd brought, ate chicken

pink off barbecue wire. that night, three in a tent

we huddled together

with the third two-man

relegated to storing fishing rods;

we'd opened it on arrival

and discovered it manky

with black mold. next morning

we were assailed by midges, and myself and jack

volunteered to walk hours into town,

then hitched back with winebottles, a bag of hamburgers

and sausages bought cheap and well-expired. we were

survivalists. cian and aodhain

had stayed at our campsite

and spent their day hunting branches. we planned

a big fire, but couldn't get it lit. planned on fishing too; instead

ate burgers, and quickly drank the wine. over moor and mountain

gunshots fired, sounds pulled closer

by prevailing winds - it was the time of year

for deer and rabbit culls

and people who knew the country.

4:30pm. last work

put to bed. boss is gone,

but I'm paid to stay in

until 5, in case there is a fire

or any late calls

for engineers. though at this time

I can still put things away

and begin smoking, reading a paperback

and dreaming up ingredients

for dinner. I pass my fingers

through tangled wire, check my phone

and pull sockets. sign off paperwork

and have a last cup of coffee - why not?

through the window

and two floors up

the birds are heading seaward

toward the evening

arrival of trawling boats. below them

cars begin to thicken. 4:30pm

is spring daily,

even in winter

and the brittlest frost -

the roads

all black branches;

trees with traffic

leaves.