Thursday, 12 July 2018


Like grass, root-burnt
longing for rain

Or reservoired floods
suppressed and restrained

And sediments damed
that could sustain

My hope is chequered
in heart fist pain

Waiting for pressure
to suspend

Waiting for free-flow
to prevail

Tuesday, 10 July 2018


Where was my head
when I fell for you

Through marram grass
pinching like sand crabs

down the slip face
of a sand dune

Landing on drift line of
Spring, full-moon tide

Ensnared in flotsam
and jetsam and items sundry

Caught and enmeshed
in bladderwrack

Entangled at uppermost limit
of wave swash

Swallowed and beached
and marooned on your shore

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018

Thursday, 5 July 2018


for my mother

Already I have forgotten the sound of your voice
Calling out my name

And the way your mouth buckled when you smiled,
Your hand raised to mend it

And you, stately in profile, your Roman nose
Less regal when you fell off a step ladder

Inspecting the paint patch he’d missed,
Taking your own swipe at it

Landing in Emergency. Nose re-set.
The last shot of you together, taken from across

The lake, walking in file, you behind him,
A tree trunk between you, a lake between us

The trunk- a portal you couldn’t pass through-
Three years later the ground opened up for you.

Monday, 25 June 2018

Lamb's Head, Derrynane, Kerry

Am here for my annual jaunt. Missed the Royals by a week!!
Skies and weather are glorious.
Skellig on the horizon scintillating in the heat.
May the force be with you!!

Sunday, 24 June 2018


Finding personal items belonging to the departed, always calls me up short.
 Here is a poem about one of those finds.

Missing You

Your shoes still hold the shape of you.
I find them where you left them
to dry, perhaps, one behind the other
on the doorstep. Left foot forward,
slightly hen-toed. As if you are walking
a tight rope, which you were,
though we didn’t know it.
They look poised to step over

whatever obstacle is in your way.
They look practiced, ragged, war-torn.
Nike - you must have bought them in a sale,
as you’d never pay the price for brand-names.
They’re not your style, or colour, but surely your size?
though you’ve been known to buy bigger
at the right price. You even bought odd sizes once
in a bargain-basement. “Scrooge!” we called you.

But you were never stingy with your heart.
Emptying out your account for those who deserved
and those who aspired
and those who just happened to be there.

I will leave the shoes, just- so.
Primed and poised on some imminent adventure
Waiting for your say-so
Waiting for you

Sunday, 17 June 2018

Banana Bread

With a surplus of bananas I thought ....Banana bread
BUT my Cranks recipe called for more ingredients than I had in the cupboard

The yeast carry-on didn't work out

Flour- self raising
mixed spice
bananas mashed
dried fruit
rice milk
and hey presto
A no egg- no dairy banana bread
Quite tasty
35 Mins later.

Tuesday, 12 June 2018

Cat Tales

Kitty caught his first mouse today. Down the garden steps he came, staggering with the excitement of it. I couldn’t believe it; a huge mouse between Kitty’s jaws.
He’s nearly two, and what with his one eye and the metal pins in his leg I never thought he’d manage it. I had to check for the blue collar and missing right eye to convince myself that it really was our kitty strutting down the garden with his prize.

The dog knew something was afoot and set upon our highway man and his hostage.
Kitty abandoned mousey to his fate, which would have been medieval coming from a 30+ kilo Setter had I not intervened with much coaxing and wheedling and enticing. I locked the two bloodthirsty marauders in the house and went out to survey the damage.

Mousey was, to my horror, still alive. No visible sign of trauma or trail of blood. I hadn’t noticed the whiteness of mice feet before, nor their semblance to the human hand. In short, I couldn’t deliver the fatal blow. I hoped for stunned and folded him into the leafy undergrowth. Then the waiting. The forays in and out of the undergrowth to check for pulse. The hopes of finding the body to be missing, presumed recovered. The attempts to thwart the highwaymen at my heels every time I ventured out.

It may have been kinder to finish mousey off with a hammer, but my hand baulked at the deed and his passing was, in the end, peaceful at least. I wasn’t there for it, but when I found him unresponsive to touch, back white feet folded over each other, eyes glazed, I buried him under the raised garden shed surrounded by rocks; the ones you’re not supposed to remove from the beach.

I thought grandly of Newgrange passage tomb and portal stones and dolmens as I laid him to rest, and prayed that Kitty wouldn’t do an Indiana and exhume him the following day.