My house, it is small –
‘Yeah, but it’s home’, he then said ~
A wise, welcome guest.
The adults talking –
A silent mezzanine spy ~
Daughter like father.
Passing Joyce Tower –
A quartile on the way home ~
Across Dublin’s range.
Pittosporum scent-
There you are again ~ heady ~
Welcoming me home.
‘Planes land and take off – With millions of stories ~ Bringing people home.
Ambitious spider –
Hoping for a lifetime catch ~
Cobwebbed door handle.
Old birch, taken down – It is still weeping, months since ~ Little pool of life.
Newly bought orchid –
Reminder of home, except ~
It can live outside.
Rusticated walls – Wood posing as stone, falseness ~ Most unlike the man.
The farm, the garden in bloom ~ Here he is, feeding the world.
The ant bites linger – Long after the job is done ~ Holly tree’s revenge.