Memories of the Hawthorn Tree

We were drinking light beer by a river,
There were ducks in the river,
The ducks were followed by an endless stream of baby ducks,
And light passed over the lace-woven cottages.

My friend near me, his green coat of years,
It lingered like a scent, a smell not of age,
But emptiness, and beside us, a stranger slept,
As butterflies do,

And the steady melody of her soft snores
Reminded me of my father’s chin, his pastel orifice,
A tobacco stained tempest,
Yet it was also a prayer.

And today, my feet are wet and dirty.
The dust road: my prayer.
And each morning I gather stones.
Then throw them to the water.

And each morning,
I remember history is merely a menagerie
That soils my favourite coffee cup
With Zen symbols on its side,

And the apostolic stars
They grin, as I crack
Thrushes’ necks
Beneath the hawthorn tree.

Irish poet, academic, and journalist, Oisín Breen’s debut, ‘Flowers, all sorts in blossom ...’ was released Mar., 2020. Breen is published in 71 journals, including in About Place, Door is a Jar, Northern Gravy, North Dakota Quarterly, Books Ireland, the Seattle Star, La Piccioletta Barca, Reservoir Road, and Dreich.