Trevor Conway

Overlooking Galway

The tiptoe of rain

Tapping as we huddle

Under the black umbrella.

Curves: your cheek,

Tongue between your teeth.

Town melts into empty fields.

Amber lights

Like distant fires,

A swallow gorging arcs of air.

I see its flight

In the brown of your eyes,

And think of another life.

My charged fingertips

Brush curls from your temple

Around your ear.


In memory of Pearse Devins


February crawls.

March stands up.

April moves at a jog.

I hardly remember the white breath of winter,

Waking each day as vigorous as a river.

There’s always been a sadness

In my mother,

This time of year.

Days like these

Are seen through wistful eyes.

I never realised why

Till now:

It was a day like this

Pearse died.

I’ve seen his face in pictures,

The uneven sweep of his curls,

The charming grin

Of a nine-year-old boy.

The football rolled

Across the road.

He followed.

Mum became the youngest child.

She never let us play out the front,

Said it was for the flowers.

But I knew what blooms she sought to protect.

By curling balls and bending legs on sunny days

We brothers fought and loved.

Flat balls still litter the edge,

Orange bladders like open wounds.

Pearse would be a man now,

Too old for games,

His curls withered,

Chin stubbled,

Driving to Ballyshannon.

Mum sometimes kicks the ball.

She smiles, but her head is low.

When I kick the ball in April

It goes faster than any car.

Trevor Conway is from Sligo, studying Writing in NUI Galway. He has completed classes/ workshops with writers such as DBC Pierre, Dermot Healy, Mary O’Malley, Michael Gorman and Kevin Higgins. His work has appeared in Poetry Salzburg Review, The Sharp Review, and in UK magazines such as Decanto and Inclement. His first collection of poetry will be published by Salmon in 2012.