The work of a summer: sods banked like bullion
Under the wavy zinc of our turf-shed roof,
A fund dry as snuff and hard as mahogany,
To be spent night after night when the winter sky
Trembles with stars, paid out, hand over hand,
To the yellow flames licking the air. But
Have we saved enough to last the length
Of this impending winter? Autumn already:
Leaves are rusting on our sycamores,
The weary sun rises later each morning.
Already I taste the frost in the midnight air.
Liam Aungier has had poems in the Poetry Ireland Review, Cyphers and previously in The Irish Times. A first collection Apples in Winter, was published by Doghouse
Under the wavy zinc of our turf-shed roof,
A fund dry as snuff and hard as mahogany,
To be spent night after night when the winter sky
Trembles with stars, paid out, hand over hand,
To the yellow flames licking the air. But
Have we saved enough to last the length
Of this impending winter? Autumn already:
Leaves are rusting on our sycamores,
The weary sun rises later each morning.
Already I taste the frost in the midnight air.
Liam Aungier has had poems in the Poetry Ireland Review, Cyphers and previously in The Irish Times. A first collection Apples in Winter, was published by Doghouse
