Éamon Mag Uidhir is a Dubliner living in County Kildare. His poems have appeared in print in Cyphers, The Moth, Crannóg, Revival, The SHOp, The Caterpiller, Skylight47, Boyne Berries, and FLARE, and online at Headstuff, Misty Mountain Review and Burning Bush II. He edited Icarus while at TCD and is currently editor of the broadsheet FLARE. He was chosen for the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series in 2015.
All moments point towards the
Instant your grey eyes looked upward
Into mine, on a hillock, in a park,
Under the soft shade of a summer tree,
And the sun drew out your scent,
Buttering the air with honeysuckle,
And our carefree, clumsy kiss
Swallowed us whole.
Picnic at Rush, 1954
All the shiny black cars.
Whitewalled, steel-spoked wheels.
Orange bakelite fingers
and chromium everywhere.
I’m going to have one, black and shiny,
like Uncle John Martin’s,
When I’m a grown-up man.
On the beach we drive to,
when the road turns right
Between the whitewashed walls,
and there’s sand on the road,
And a brackish waft in the air,
the black cars all line up
Like John Martin’s piano sharp keys
on the smooth white strand.
My swimming togs, home-knitted,
soaked, harsh and taut,
Chap my infant thighs as I
whimper and whine with the wind.
But who’s to mind me in the panting din
of big cousins playing relievio
Across the hard grass of the dunes?