A series of memories surfaced during Spring–Summer 2025 

 fragments of a childhood strained but still intact,

cobbled together from scrap,

made with care from basic ingredients.

Homestead  

Homestead
Home brand
I’ve got a shopping list in my hand,
written on the back of a cornflakes box,
folded hard.
Looking at the shelves in a dark corner of the shop:

T-bags
Sugar
Milk
Eggs
Self-raising flour
A pound of beef mince
Two onions
Lollipops

I have no money,
but a short letter:

We’ll pay you back on Thursday.

I hope no one standing behind me notices.
The serious man in a butcher’s coat
writes it into his serious book,
and it snaps shut.

Striped purple and blue bags  and we’re away.
Thank you.
Thank fuck.

Salt & Flour

In the kitchen
my mother kneading bread on the table
like a drum.

The soft thump
when she turns it over,
the rolling pin—an old wine bottle—
the rocking sound
The uneven table leg

Thump,
then roll,
rock,
roll,
splash of water,
flick of flour—
the whole thing is music.

A pulse runs through the house,
a calming, rounded power.

Then she rubs her hands together,
in one fluid motion—
all the excess comes off,
revealing her wedding band.

And there lies the loaf—
ready,
conjured from salt and flour.

Breathing heavily
Drummed into existence.

Fishing Trip

I got myself a haircut after school

Came home and my father said
“We’re going fishing”

We strapped the rods to the peeling red frame of the Honda 50
Put the tackle box in the white case at the back
And we were off

I hated being the passenger
He made me nervous
My hands gripped the chrome behind me

Going around corners

He’d shout something through the plastic visor
I hadn’t a clue what he was saying

Should I lean with him as he turned or stay upright

I never knew and I still don’t

I just pretended I did to minimise communication
I just hoped we wouldn’t crash

At the lake
The sun splashed across the water
Red floats bobbed
Reels clicking and winding

Evening drew in
The mosquitoes stealing the light

“You got a haircut” he said
Rubbing my head
It felt good that he noticed
A soft gesture

The spring breeze caught my bare neck
As I cast another line toward the sky.

The Queue

Before my father found work,

He’d sign on at the Social Welfare Office each week.

A small green room in a crooked building,

A covered alleyway leading up

With smooth cobblestone ground,

Cigarette butts crushed into the cracks.

The men would queue—small talk and big talk,

Shuffling their way toward payday,

Muttering away, rolling fags.

All walks of life,

Standing on hard times,

Polishing the stones beneath their feet.

The Mask

Late Autumn is humming,
Evening fog hangs over the town.

I go into the pub on the square with my father.
He orders me a Cidona.
I want some peanuts but I’m afraid to ask.
He has a pint of stout.

Silent men sit in corners, slowing down time.
The clink of pool balls rolling across the felt—searching for their place.

He orders another pint.
I ask for the peanuts—you have to time everything right with him.

We play pool and watch the traffic,
then cross the street to the newsagents.

Halloween masks hang above the cigarettes.
I point to the big one.
“I like that mask.”
“Which one?”
“The monster one, with the brown fur.”
“Okay, let’s get it.”

It cost six pounds.
I walk out of the shop proud.
I have the scariest mask in the world.

We head home, up the darkening hill.
I try it on—pulling it down over my head.
I feel different—calm.

Maybe we talked, I don’t remember.
But we could have.

Cones 

A hot Sunday in July 

I’m searching for some twine to make a bow and arrow

There’s a faint knock on the door 

I see no one through the frosted glass 

I ignore it 

Then another knock 

I rush to the door thinking it’s the kids messing 

I open it so fast it makes a vacuum 

I look down - it’s one of the little ones - Helen 

She looks up at me defiantly clutching an ice cream

Announces ‘we got cones’  

She then searches my eyes 

And just walks away. 

Father and Son

Sometimes he’d be in good form.
He’d have a drink in him, be feeling sentimental, and play old tapes.
It was a strange sort of love he showed,
like the music was doing the loving for him,
One evening he came home and put on Cat Stevens’ Father and Son.

He played it for me and pointed at the lyrics with tears in his eyes
like stars twinkling above a dark sky:
“You’re still young,
that’s your fault.”

The power of lyrics struck me from above and annihilated me.

I could see my father in a new but fractured way.

Beyond the fear and anger, I saw something else

love and music...

like a boy calling from a locked room,

trying to be heard.

Ice Cream Block

A cool block of raspberry ice cream sits on the counter.
The edges bashed from being in the bags.
The cardboard cover starting to melt
Folds away beautifully.

And there it is:
A glowing tablet of vanilla

With a raging streak of raspberry.
It’s perfect.

She takes the big knife and cuts it into six pieces.
Packet of wafers
Handed out to us
Like disciples.

A miracle.

Now only £1.49.

Great Expectations

Just after the World Cup

Someone walks into the classroom
And announces that I won an award
For a poetry competition we did a while back

There will be a presentation
At the newly built local library in town
You’ll be meeting Mr Eamonn Dunphy
He’ll be giving out the awards
3pm on Wednesday

Me?
I won?
Eamonn Dunphy?
I’ll be there

This is big
This is really big
I’m meeting Eamonn Dunphy
He read something I wrote
I’m getting an award

It could be a motorbike
A skateboard
A signed football

I push through the library door – hit by the smell of books
There’s Eamonn talking to a circle of people
With his boyish hair and unruly brow
Just like the telly

I sidle in
I’m nervous
I thought I would be more confident than this

Someone calls my name
I walk into the centre
I think I have to say something

Eamonn thrusts out his hand to be shook
I gladly oblige
With his other hand he presses me a slim plastic box

Watercolour paints?

Are you fucking joking me?
“Well done, Brian.”
Oh, thank you very much

Someone from the committee
Paws me on the shoulder
And makes a ‘wow’ face at my prize

Jesus Christ

I’m going home

Jane

Down at the playground on a Monday
Kids screaming down slides
And screeching on wonky swings
She appears through the far gate
with her tennis racket and her friends

Her long licorice hair
Shining like treacle in the sun

My heart grinds to a halt
And then lurches to life

Every moment is now charged
with the possibility
Of a glance, a hi, a smile

I can’t concentrate on the game
I forgot I’m even playing
Every part of me is drawn to her
Gravity is acting weird

They sit outside on the bench
Talking, sometimes looking in
I have to do the best pretending I’ve ever done
Pretending she’s not there
While trying to show off

I don’t know what’s working and what’s not

Through the wire fence she shouts
“Do you want to play doubles?”

My soul gets into a rocket and fucks off

“Sure,” I say
She comes around to my side of the court
With baffling confidence

Gives me a look
And I hand her the ball to serve.

Eggshells

Boiled eggs for breakfast,
shells scattered on the table
like casualties.
Salt and pepper
hiding in the grain of the wood.

Junior cert exam soon—
English Paper 1.

Something is different.
My Father’s rants seem sharper lately.
Not the big rant, then calm—
just one attack after the next,
the reasons fading
until they disappear altogether.

His voice sounds weird,
there’s a yelp to it
in the teapot’s reflection.
He lurches around the kitchen.

Something is going to break.
You can feel it—
something's in the air
like burning toast.

I know Kavanagh's poem will come up today:

“Oh, can I stroke the monsters back?”

Or some shite—I don’t care.

I better get going.

I’ll be back for lunch.