The chipper van and its tubs of curry
scenting out low in the air
of the Golden Anchors’ playground
The cowshed across from the farm
with the barking dogs
held the warm mist of cow shit
Striking matches in the car park
letting one ruin the rest
all flame at once, our Chinese trick
My mother explaining the tracks of age
she gave me her hand
skin cracking with time; roads into mine
The surf, the cliffs and the whirlpool at Clone
still holding the art in all I do.
Tommy’s sandy shop so full of youth
Where all the voices, even whispered, were familiar
and rose from the shaded laneway
past the dusty barks of crab apple trees
In the days of the Punt
chocolate cigarettes and candy sticks.
hay-stuffed Cornetto joints
Friday night might resolve us to
The Orphan Girl or foamy Beacon,
wet romances or frighting blows.
Afterwards we'd find our girls
shiver out and give them hope
feel the rush of the harbors gale
Find our bus and signal home
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Submission Name: Maudlin 
