Colin Golden, originally from Cork, is a Dublin-based writer, coach/mentor and father of four young adults. After more than three decades working in finance, he now works with people navigating change in their work and life.

His poetry grows from a parallel exploration of memory, inheritance, family, the body and the parts of ourselves that can remain hidden. His work has appeared in Right Hand Pointing and Dark Poets.

Two, Not One?

I’d be waiting,
already knowing,
eyes on the dirt.
Two captains,
pointing,
one by one,
to friends, better hurlers,
until
no need to point,
only me
and silence
dragging my stick,
through the grassy muck
to the corner of the pitch.

When I see you,
I still feel it
falling down and backwards
from the thick sky,
pulling on my sodden helmet.

When I bring you to your match
and a teammate nods in your direction,
both eyes sag
like those jerseys
hanging alone
on a bellied clothesline
in the rain.

I can’t remember that boy back then—
I think I turned to talk
towards you,
words either didn’t come out
or deflated, unheard
through the drains.

Now, looking out on that still lake,
the one with no name,
breathing the same air—
a dark ripple sinks,
lost,
or wanting
back to the silence.