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Under a Copper-Sulphate Sky

October 11, 2013


Today is a wide-open, death-throes-of-autumn day.
Where there is sun, there is heat.
In shade, an icy finger taps one on the shoulder.

I went to the Soda Parlour café for a mid-morning coffee and – I’ll ‘fess up – a Wellington slice. No qualms of conscience here: I enjoyed every gooey, chocolatey crumb. Coming home, I thought I’d better do a bit of work to justify my previous indulgence.
So I got out the yoke for the weed spraying. Yoke is a scientific term. Fact. Sweartogawd.

There’s a trick to spraying. I put my back to the breeze, which – let me tell you – is bloody difficult on the West of Ireland seaboard, where the wind seems multi-directional.

Every time I prepare the weed sprayer and drift around the garden, I find myself thinking of Patrick Kavanagh – Poet, and patron saint of every drunk singing Raglan Road in the corner of a pub.

Lines come into my head from a childhood poetry book:
‘Dandelions growing on headlands, showing
Their unloved hearts to everyone.

And I was there with a knapsack sprayer’

Mine isn’t a knapsack, but I carry Kavanagh on my back.
And above me, a copper-sulphate blue sky.


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One Comment
  1. Liam McNamara permalink

    Beautifully written…. I can feel that West of Ireland breeze & almost taste the gooey chocolatey on my tongue… Feel like blasting Mary Black & “Song For Ireland”..instead I should be reaching for my yoke but even Dandelions have a reason…

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