Poetry

7 a.m.

More than dew,
The dampness hung.
My breath fogged
As I walked
This morning,
Good for the mind
As well as the body.
I spotted an animal
Coming towards me,
Unused to company
On this quiet road.
He showed no fear.
Perhaps he did not hear
My soft soled shoes,
Or see the outline of
My dark clothed figure.
As he came near
I noticed his ears alert
And his feet too large.
This tawny young hare
Jumped into the ditch
With one quick hop,
Displaying his
Strength and speed.

Not far from home
I am still savouring
The encounter,
When suddenly,
Ahead on my path
A wily fox trotted.
His beauty no less
Than the swift hare.
With his back to me
I could see
The white tip
Of his swishing tail.
His redness dappled
Dark fur over new,
His moulting not over.
He glanced at me
Over his shoulder.
Startled and spooked,
He slid through a gap
Extinct from my view.
I feel privileged to see
These hunted pair,
Both pursued by man,
And one by the other.

© 2011 Marie Costello


Portsalon

We made the trip
Every day
For a fortnight,
No exotic resort
Or foreign shore,
But far enough
For impatient
Bathers.

Bags and buckets
In the boot,
Picnic packed
And deckchairs.
Too many
For seats,
We fight
For the windows.

The sun
Scorched
The leather seats.
Our bare
Sweaty legs
Burned
And mouths
Roared silently.

We longed
To see water,
Wanted to stop
At it’s first sight,
But we drove
Further,
And gasped
On cliff’s edge.

Below us
The beach
Was golden,
And the water
sparkled.
Excited,
We cheered,
At the sight of sand.

© Marie Costello 09/06/2011


Tar
Summer day
Early June
I smell tar.
Breathing in
Aromatic
Fumes,
Eyes closed.

It’s not
A trip
Or pilgrimage
When heat
Melted roads
And spoiled
Our shoes.

It’s not
A pole
Protected
From decay
That we hugged
And ruined
Floral dresses.

It’s not
Bubbles
On a country road
Poked
With sticks,
Our hands
In need of butter.

No it’s not
Much fun
Or wrath
From mother.
It’s gargling
Glossy
Road repairs.

© Marie Costello 7/6/11