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NEW POEMS BY PHILIP QUIRKE



EARLY AUTUMN                                                 

Wheat is in the drying bins.

oblong bales repose on stubble,                                 

await removal to the haggard.                       

Not a crow, this sultry afternoon.

 

By the river’s muddy meander

reeds bow before a humid breeze

which carries a scent of furze

in the strong aroma of coconut.

 

Leaves feel the sap slow,

shift the colour spectrum,

wait on the lustre of this time

when they will rust into gold.





LEAVING CERT. RESULTS’ DAY

             AN ELEGY

On this hot Friday afternoon in August

the girls sit in a circle under the sycamores.

They chat, share stories, check phones. 

Everything - the air, bodies, trees - shimmers.

These young students are innocent.

They have not yet the eyes of the disillusioned.

 

Chaps from the boy’s school

wave from the footpath, full of laughter,

boisterous in the new freedom.

They were expected, and boys and girls

greet each other in a rush of hugs,

compare results, congratulate and commiserate.

 

They have known each other for years,

and they are now to take flight

to college, gap years, to new friends.

Many in this sunny gathering may never meet again.

It is their youthful trust in the goodness of the world

which delivers them today from a taste of grief. 

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