Paddy Kelly was born in Ireland and narrowly avoided being a farmer. A romantic accident moved him to Sweden where he remains to this day, now a huge fan of standing in line, wind-driven snow and fermented fish. He’s had fiction and non-fiction published in several newspapers and magazines, from Ireland’s Own to Analog Science Fiction.


my job was handing the beer
to the men who drove the tractors
as they tore across the yard on wedges of dust

hauling silage was thirsty work
and they worked best with a drink in them
a green bottle between the depositing of a trailer
and the roaring out the gate for the next one

the same lads who drew the dole in the village
driving half lit up on curling country roads

they piled into the pub at day’s end
tossing my father’s half-starved money
into stouty oceans on the bar


the bog was there for burning
wet bricks carved from banks
with the ease of a slurp and a twist

the men skirted pools of bogwash
men in heavy wool who couldn’t swim
digging the ground from under them