it’s all about finding

a taker for what your offering.

I have a dark side, for instance,

my smile hides shadows,

the underside of tiny petals,

forget-me-nots, its snippet

of sky, a dark undercover.

Fibonacci sequences weave

like industrious ants

who create for the sake of it.

By Attracta Fahy.


We walk home from the fields,

our young backs arched, aching,

from spreading slits.

Row after row

we lean over these same furrows,

in autumn,

picking ripe potatoes.


Tired bodies pacing home

in evening sun,

crimson growing beyond our hill,

little said, unable to say

the unspeakable, mindful,

waiting for rest.

Rolling limestone walls,

insular, hold a fantasy,

a world outside

our carpet of green fields.


Security too

in the disipline of work.

With tasks well done,

we believe in a greater life.

Longing connects us to fields

beyond our world.

We will grow into what we leave.

Almost home, our tea is waiting.

By Attracta Fahy.

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