Misconception


This is a poem about a moon


that was visible one clear day


in December: three quarters visible -


buttermilk against delphinium -


as framed in a pane of this window:


and a sequence of airplanes


with short contrails, swimming


through the blue, in its direction,


particularly the first seemed sure


to merge with the stationary orb –


but missed it by what looked like


little more that a millimetre.


Market Forces


Tonight, love, the moon is big over Drake's Pool


and the wood on the far bank is clearly defined


in shadow. The air is so clear that I can hear


the faint 'ching, ching, ching' of the breeze against


the masts of the yachts that are moored there.


There is too much sweetness about all this.


Tomorrow everything will be as normal.


All of that has been organised already.


The school run, the groceries, the monthly


payments


- all confidently sorted. Nothing to do now


but figure out how best to tell the children.


When I get home, I imagine, we will talk


'til well past midnight, trying to read between


the lines of a far-off dissertation; and how


the turn of a page can have such disastrous


consequences. But still, hearing in our minds


the voices of our parents, repeat assurances


of how this might well bring something better.


And in the small hours glad to have each other,


whispering, where will we be this time next year?


Olive Broderick is reading in the Poetry Ireland Introductions series at the Irish Writers' Centre on 20 May