Old Man Gardening

Today, he’s grass-cutting. Slowly.
The ancient Qualcast push-me pull-me
Known by its rusty growling rotars.
Both, by a wheezy intake of breath.

Back and forth, back and forth
Over the postage stamp lawn
The alternate green strips immaculate as
A Premiership Football pitch.

More immaculate than his remaining
Hair. Parting beginning at the ear
Then swathed over a pale crown.
Occasionally caught by the wind

Sent waving and swirling
Bobby Charlton-style.
A lonely tuft of marram grass
Clinging to a sand dune.

Meeting Head On

The surprise of a big fat Bumble Bee
In its black and amber
Mc Quillan’s GAC colours

As it emerges from the cluster
Of flowers, rising up unexpectedly
And bouncing off my forehead.

Softer than the shepherd’s projectile
Taking down the arrogant lumbering
Philistine like a felled tree

Less fatal than the short corner
Sailing past my head from an Irish Internationalist at the indoors in Dublin

Still occasionally keeping me awake
At night, at the prospect of my own
Shuddering premature felling.

Living with Peter.

This morning, I re-read part of your letter.
The bit about ‘loving life and seeing good days.’

You said, ‘Live in harmony,
Do not repay evil for evil
Or insult with insult, but
With blessing.’

3 names – jumping with the unexpectedness
Of salmon at Rogie Falls
Leapt into mind.

Seagal. Neeson. Craig.