Nuala O’Farrell is a late-emerging poet who has dedicated her life to both medicine and literature. Having worked as a General Practitioner, she now teaches “Narrative Medicine,” a field that beautifully marries her dual passions. Nuala finds inspiration in the hills of Connemara, where she and her late husband spent countless joyful days walking the mountains and cycling the bog roads of Galway. Her poem “The Last Sheep Farmer” was published online in the magazine “Gypsophila” last year, and “The Perfect Egg” was featured on Sunday Miscellany. Nuala’s latest work, “The Laird of Roundstone,” continues to showcase her poetic talent.

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After the Storm

We were never really safe, she said, as we shivered
conspicuously, our breaths whitely brightening
the freezing air.

Like the quiet woodlice hiding under the settee, we were upended
by a random broom; all fourteen legs scrabbling for purchase
in the laughing air.

Our roof is now pock-marked with fury, slates
ripped off like alopecia, to reveal the soft felt
underbelly of existence.

That favourite birch was unearthed from its trembling,
its riverbank roots exposed now, footless
in the drying air.

We were never really safe , she said, as we shivered
inexplicably, our arms raised in supplication
to the dying air.

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UNCLE

My sister was always
His favourite.
That summer of the new foal
She stripped naked
And ran,
A freckled terror,
Through yellow meadows,
Her blond curls beckoning
To her frantic mother.

Once he gave her a ride
Bareback,
On the young horse.
Gleeful with excitement
She clung to his black mane,
While uncle
Whispered endearments
Into the horse’s ear.

He was heard to boast
That she could climb
Better than any boy,
And ride the young colt
Over drains and ditches
Until
His spirit broke.

On the last day
He always
Pressed a half crown,
Silently,
Into her hand.
Her broad grin
Answering
His complicity.

She waved
Until
She could
No longer see
His bent form
Whispering endearments
Into the collie’s ear.