Publishers of Irish Poetry and Drama

Poem of the Month

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Imagine staying still,
rooted to the spot,
to the five-hundred-year-old
brick floor of a house
in a quiet valley, listening
to the bricks — I feel them shifting
under the rug, like living things —
to the years gather

in the darkening room.
Unchanging valley,
neighbourhoods of grass
but breath by breath
the bricks see out their owners,
there’s nowhere
doesn’t work its slow removal:
lean back

into yielding grass, the long
tree-lined avenues, take root
in the brick whisper, the flight
stored in the furniture,
the key as you turn it
slipping from hand to hand;
hesitate, linger, take what you can
from the opening door.

by Peter Sirr
from The Rooms (2014)

Peter Sirr by Kevin Honan