Niall Bradley is a software engineer from Cork, Ireland.

He writes poetry and prose with a particular interest in fantasy, science-fiction, and scientific themes.


My mother would always tell me
that I shouldn’t confuse lightening with light
while black clouds washed over my country
like a raindrop on a windshield

I’d count the seconds between flash and bang
and she’d scowl
and she’d ask if I wanted it farther or nearer

and I’d say
that “lightening to me
was what I wanted life to be
furious and hot
precise and strange”
though perhaps in not so many words

and then the thunder would clap
and echo

I’d be in awe of its rumble
without noticing how it faded

or how the clouds then shattered against the sunlight
breaking through and glaring our windows
feeding the hungry grass
green streaks, glossy with rain

I didn’t think I’d mix them up
sunlight, to me, was something else
if it was anything at all.
uncaring and individual
scattershot and significant
actual and affecting.
are not the words I would’ve used
“useful”, is what I’d say
a backdrop for other things

like walking on the garden grass with mother
she’d feel the sunlight like she’d learned to do

she’d say her life had been a hot streak
drowned out by the storm around her
and mine would be the same

all the while the light would be there
a backdrop for other things