TALL STOREYS

Angela is glad she remembered her flippers.
And her black catsuit comes in handy.
At first she is afraid to fly too close
to the moon in case she bleeds.
It’s one thing flying in dreams.
In real life it takes a greater effort.

Ignore the weight of your body,
she tells herself. Arc your arms like
a hundred metre breaststroke champion.
This may be your only chance.
You don’t want to grow up in a slum.
Twenty storeys high. No trees. No job.

Dawn breaks as she crosses the river.
She sees peach curtains billow
from a nearby penthouse.
Take a closer look, she urges.
Inside stacks of books. Oriental sculptures.
From the maple floor her shadow beckons.

Stórtha Arda

Stórtha Arda

Tá áthas ar Aingeal gur chuimhnigh sí ar a lapaí.
Agus is mór an áis di freisin, a culaith chait dhubh.
I dtosach bíonn imní uirthi eitilt róghar
don ghealach ar eagla go ndiúgfaí a cuid fola.
Is rud amháin é eitilt le linn taibhrimh –
ar an saol seo is gá iarracht níos déine a dhéanamh.

Dein dearmad ar mheáchan do choirp,
a deir sí, léi féin.  Sín amach do ghéaga
ar nós curaidh céad mhéadar snámh brollaigh.  
B’fhéidir gurb é seo an t-aon seans a gheobhas tú.  
Ní theastaíonn uait fás suas i sluma,
fiche stór in  airde. Gan chrainn. Gan jab.

Le héirí na gréine gabhann thar abhainn,
is tugann faoi deara dallóga liathdhearga
ag bolgadh as díonteach. Caith do shúil
thairis sin, a mholann di féin.  Laistigh
stacaí leabhar, dealbha ón Oirthear.
Is ón urlár mailpe, croitheann a scáth chuici.