Fred Johnston
Aware
You can tumble into the grave-pit
In Kinvara
All arms and legs, trying for balance
Think it a hollow gouged by building
Work someone
Couldn't finish at the end of the graveyard
But then feel scarred or marked
To learn what
You've lain in; in the guest-house washing
The green stains of grass and leaf
From your skin,
Postcards unwritten stacked and quiet
On the bedside table, such order,
Soap-smell, the light
In the room makes you wary –
Dear Mom and Dad, you write home;
The weather's just awful,
I might leave sooner than planned.
Fred Johnston lives in Galway and founded Galway’s annual literature festival. He has published eight collections of poetry and with his group, Parson’s Hat, performs and records traditional Irish music.
Page(s) 60
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