Mark Reed* lives in London with his wife Louise. He has a background in marketing communications and whilst he still works as a consultant he now spends much of his time writing, broadcasting and working in the area of voice-overs. He is currently working on his first collection of poetry.
Cormorants and swans
An Atlantic Friday in Galway.
Stoic, the ladies in their see-through waterproof bonnets
lean through the elements.
Perms will remain permanent today.
In Eyre Square dogs bark to themselves
and an old vagrant continues to read Tuesday’s Mirror
fag perched cleaning-lady style
crumpling pages to a bin as she goes.
On Shop Street buskers strum their stuff.
Outside the King’s Head
Father Christmas like, a bearded man plays three instruments at once.
In Dubray Books, Mary awaits her next learned reader
fine works here
no Mills and Boon,
Wilde’s more the fare.
In Quay Street bars offer homage,
heated by a thousand bodies
ice melts fast.
Artists hard at work.
At street’s end the wind picks up,
Father Griffin’s hoolie.
The Corrib lives today
fed by her bloated mother upstream.
Weirs plume peat coloured water baywards
past eel traps
and the blue Cathedral pierces a darkening sky.
The Final Call
We sped to a crying widow,
a fine hotel
but what does that matter now?
Where it happened –
a table next to a gaming machine in a Maltese backstreet bar,
his last place a gloomy unbefitting shrine.
Passport corner clinically clipped.
“So very sorry – I liked his work.”
A thin young man not used to his words.
An orange pillbox mortuary stood alone on the hill.
White rubber aprons and oversized green boots,
staring staff waiting to see important people.
And there were none,
Those that loved him most.