Summer Table
by John MacKenna My mother was sitting on the cemetery wall, reciting an old poem, not loudly but with the carefulness of one who knows her
Ruins
by Thomas McCarthy Fallen martyrs of Antioch, time’s unrecoverable flora — It’s not me, it’s the garden itself that becomes nostalgic At this
Searching for Dennis O’Driscoll
by Thomas McCarthy The howling November wind, that chill Taxing Master, stiffens Entire buildings in the Castle yard. As we grow older We also
Boghole
by Paul Casey for John W. Sexton the slop migrant vortex of turf muck near swallowed him whole one grey farm day he said, but for a bubble of air
Last Wildflower
by Paul Casey for Rosie I scaled the cliffs of Moher to write about the tourists trekked south till there were no more barriers, signs of stick
Lost Things
by Jessica Traynor We are living now in the era of lost things. Can you feel the bee’s wingbeat as it dodges into the slipstream of the