Patrick Doyle grew up on a farm in Kilkenny. His work has appeared in Skylight 47, Revival, and Kilkenny Poetry Broadsheet. He was twice the winner of the ‘From the Well’ Short Story Competition and runner-up in the Leslie Boland.
He has performed at festivals all over Ireland, including West Cork Literary Festival, Kilkenny Arts Festival and Cork International Short Story Festival.
He lives in Kinsale and is working towards a first collection.

The Wedding

It is only when the band has ceased 
playing and the last guest has left
that you finally reveal yourself  
You   in whose presence alone
I find rest and repose
You   in whom all things abide

You take my hand
and walk me to your room
The lights are low and when you step
out of your dress and fall
naked on the bed    the sky gasps
and the moon and stars lean closer

You roll over and slowly sit up
arching your back
so that your long hair cascades 
behind you and your breasts rise up   
holy mountains with cairns
crowning their summit

Your eyes are wells of wisdom
your long legs   peninsulas
reaching out to guide me into your harbour
inviting me to come play
as God played
before the making of the world

I gaze at you until 
your beauty becomes my own
then I kneel before you
place my lips to the rim 
of your chalice and drink 
the ambrosia of your being

As you fall back groaning
I climb upon you
delve deep into your mystery
the soft flesh of your love embracing 
me wholly  as I become all flame
a god inscribing visions
on the moist walls of your cave

Le Temps Des cerises

Daffodils open their eyes
a seagull glides through the eye of Nohoval Cove

Last night a woman knocked on my door
I made tea told stories by an open fire

She stoked embers fanned flames
sang about a time of cherries

and all the revolution would bear
In my garden now

the clay is quivering
the rosebuds are pregnant with summer

Lament of the Old Woman of Kinsale

Winter has come
The light grows cold
All that I am retreats
takes refuge in memory

Death stalks the frozen land
beyond my skin
Ghosts haunt the crumbling
ruin of my mind

I no longer yearn
no longer grieve
I give in

beneath a thin breeze
that chills me to the bone

I am old
I am useless
I am alone