The Cafe Review

by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin Come out, I say, and you all come to the light. I look for her, she’s there, the sunlight glancing up from the shining

by Seamus Ruttledge In this silent land Say nothing And keep saying it In this silent land. Men draped in cassocks Possess a Nation’s secrets To

by Cláir Ní Aonghusa i.m. Annie Moore Clancy As I look out from the warren hill My eyes are drawn from Galtee More Towards that graveyard by the

by Lorna Shaughnessy He wrapped each one carefully: his father’s whisky glasses, his mother’s cooking spoons, lifted them into the attic to rest

by Lorna Shaughnessy Clocking in and out. That’s the bit that gets me. That, and watching the clock, that huge clock over the factory floor,

by Aideen Henry We are fortresses you and I our fortifications, castellations and buttresses not visible in the main, not until the flowers and

by Afric McGlinchey backward, to the shock of plant and animal, child. Read it in the child’s face. We used to make this garden our own: that bit

by John Liddy Outdoors: A Glenstal Abbey Cycle for Fr Brian From a clearing in the woods with a view across the fields, my swallow’s eye

by Kevin Kiely this capitulation of the spirit among cityscape and the banks are empty, lit from inside so poke and digit for your virtual cash

by Mark Granier This game is where letters are given some rope, slack to unwind with, make your name turn its back. What has five fingers, a

Cart