A Cemetery Walk

 It may have been the sea shells 

the cockles and clams, mussels and whelks

arranged in the shape of his initials

that drew me into the graveyard.

Or perhaps the hooded crow that sat sentinel 

over Dan Hegarty's grave.

Not a sculpted effigy like the hare

that leapt over Robert Jack Harris 

but the real deal, a stylish fellow,

ash grey feathers and pitch black cloak,

wary of my approach

to the point of weapons drawn-

Causing me to veer aft towards

 the anchor marked grave of Bonzo,

an islander and a survivor

of Baltimore Industrial School,

who, according to the verse inscribed, 

lay lonely in a quiet churchyard

above a murmuring sea.

But today the sea lay tranquil

while the tombstones murmured stirring tales 

of ladies of no mean spirit,

true gentlemen, artists and actresses,

shoemakers, sailors and travellers

from Sussex to Connecticut to Sussex to here -

a green hillside overlooking their final harbour.

And I thought, despite the popularity of cremations

these days, there's nothing to beat a graveyard

for colourful narratives.

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

Scrolling through news feed on social media

 

On my early morning scroll through news feed

I begin to feel like that crowd must have felt

standing on a New York or Boston wharf

waiting for the next instalment of a Dickens novel.

A certain desperation bordering on frenzy

as I dangle off the cliff edge

of  one truncated headline after another.

And in this compromising position

where I am hoping for an index finger

to emerge out of the clouds,

a bit like Adam,

though he was reclining on a grassy hillside

whilst I am dangling over the precipice

of which cookies to allow.

At my feet loose rock clattering into a silence.

It might be a good time to ask 

if I really need or want to know

what Olivia Coleman has freely created...

or whether Little Nell has really died...

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

To Sit or Not to Sit

 I wonder why I bother to herd them out

every late Spring or early Summer

dragging them from the shadow into the light

to grace my back yard patio,

placing them near scented herbs

and honeysuckled hedges

or set to face the rising or the setting sun.

They do look well, I'll say that for them.

A tableau of a postcard idyll in Gardener's World,

Garden Gate or the gold standard Fine Gardening,

inviting to bird watcher, poet and even pre-dinner

G &T drinker if any of the above were at hand.

But given our inclement weather, even in Summer,

and the fact that you prefer a dry, unruffled newspaper

and I a life lived vicariously

the unused wicker chairs must be relieved

when their Summer duty has come to a close

and the season of Samhain* calls them back

into the garden shed for wintering.

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

 *https://irishmyths.com/2022/08/11/samhain/

New Poetry Collection

 

I have put together some poems and self published under the title Flotsam and Jetsam. Its subtitle is Poems from the Everyday because my writing is inspired by ordinary events, friends, family pets, journeys  and moments in my everyday that have been both profound and ridiculous. The cover features beloved Molly at Sandymount Strand, Dublin. The book is available from Amazon. 

Flotsam and Jetsam

Wistful Thinking

 

I never knew how you knew

when that moment was approaching.

A certain flourish of knife and fork?

The diminishing scent of melted butter?

Whatever it was your snout was scent cone perfect,

and from wherever you were

it would appear at my knees

having tracked down my last morsel.

It became my custom

even when you were elsewhere

to leave it for you 

anyway.

And though you are in doggy heaven

or at least in transit

or given the season of Samhain

waiting for the gap between worlds to appear,

 I sit, like some latter day medium,

a crust of bread on my knee,

hoping to entice, conjure or recall

you through the veil back to the table.

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

The Dutch Vase

 

for Liz

In the kitchen window sits a ceramic vase

the shape of a woman's thighs,

blue clouds floating in a white sky,

all in all the colour of a delft tile.

And a fleet of sailing ships

laden with silks and spices

is heading for a Dutch canal.

Overseen by a windmill, of course,

or rather a family of them, 

all tilting their sails to the winds of trade.

The whole tableau encased in a blue petalled heart.

Not tulip petals, as you'd perhaps suppose,

from a scene about life in The Golden Age.

But there is, I find, no such thing as a true blue tulip.

And outside the window a robot mower

saunters along a fixed path,

doubles back, circles, takes up the trail again,

like a dog on the scent of

but not in a hurry

to get the job done.

Enough to remind me of the passage of time,

progress and the obsolete

and a nudge to plant bulbs now

if I want a dutch tableau in the garden next Spring.

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

Berets and Spanish dogs

 

I remember someone admitting

that all they could remember from War and Peace

was the story of a policeman tied to the back of a bear

and thrown into the canal.

And having read the Eye Witness guide to San Sebastian

on a flight from Dublin to Bilbao

and tasted, on arrival, the city's Top Ten 

and a plate or two of pintxos,

I have to admit that the daily highlight for me 

was the fellow at the corner cafe,

his black txpela, finger softened to a peaked front

speaking basque to his dog

as he sipped his cafe solo.

A caricature almost of a Basque separatist,

lean to the point of wiry, or visa versa,

nonchalant to the point of dour.

And given my own Celtic ancestry

I bought myself a beret,

or rather several of them

But failed to create the same effect-

lacking perhaps the required fluency in Gaelic,

the correct amount of finger dexterity,

never mind the dog,

and not forgetting my complete lack of nonchalance.

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard