At Nanny Sadie’s

He hears the engine roar, somewhere past the gate,

somewhere past the undulation of green

that rises in tuffs of grass above a mucky underbelly.

He sees it zoom past, framed for a moment

in the old stone walls encased in bindweeds and ivy.

He sits on the farm gate, waiting.

His body entangled like bramble through

the bars, filled with false promises

given from every passing car.

He sways with the trees, he leans into the breeze

as the gate creeks and moans under a slacken grip.

It calls him a cheeky monkey

as he dangles and swings and causes

so much trouble. When he isn’t

he’s peeling the rust, impatiently. The iron carcass,

with the blood-dried brown, left to rot in the sun.

He strips the layers, lets them fray in flakes and streams,

that rise and buckle like an addict.

The kid is a trapeze artist. Watch him

balance the beams, shifting his weight

till he forgets

he’s someone’s waiting son.

When he gets tired, he lets his knees fold and hang

to feel the blood rush

birth the delusion of being the biggest bat in Galway.

He hears the crows speak; he hears himself

talk back to them, both waiting on their telephone wires

for someone to come.