I wake, creaking
the room is cold
the house is silent
the day waits
I tell myself to get up
the
... [+]
Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. He is the author of two chapbooks and three poetry collections. Winner of the Anthony Cronin Poetry Award and twice ... [+]
I look out the car window
across night fields
squinting; I can see
lives I never lived
I drive on, into the village,
into the rain
a traffic light turns red;
I see Picasso-people
walking in the raindrops
running down the window
the crescent moon is thin
a fingernail clipping
pointless, almost;
there are no stars
a canal-bank heron becomes illuminated
by the headlights
as I pass;
I wonder why
it is not afraid
across night fields
squinting; I can see
lives I never lived
I drive on, into the village,
into the rain
a traffic light turns red;
I see Picasso-people
walking in the raindrops
running down the window
the crescent moon is thin
a fingernail clipping
pointless, almost;
there are no stars
a canal-bank heron becomes illuminated
by the headlights
as I pass;
I wonder why
it is not afraid