But I’m Missing Something Once I saw a forest that kept going and going life to all sides oceanic in size as I moved trees syncopated and merged like graves or grape vines But now I know there’s always a road nearby Now I see them at mass: sunlight saddened by coloured glass whispered echoes, cave-wall damp art wrought in human flesh and violence: still and silent incense sweet, but softened by weight mourning a lack of faith candles star-dotted on a wall heaven-high a bell calls to the cavern of the sky and I feel a cavity, growing and growing with an ocean yearning
Gentle Shore A home is made of gentle things its water still clear evenings see what greyness masks the spectral pinks and shadow dash of surface winds like shoaling fish Tell me, is this a godly way? Where day gives gentle way to day. Then why this gnawing human drift? Two thirds my life to see in it a face of god or settle heart and drift from shore to gentle shore.
Niall Bradley is a software engineer living in Cork, Ireland. His work has been published in Crannóg and the Galway Review.