Why are mushrooms
In such a hurry?

And where do they
come from, anyway?

Could it really be
That mushrooms and me
Share a family tree?


Being Regal

You can be regal
In a housecoat
As you cross
A village street
Early on a chilly
Irish morning
To scatter
Some crumbs
For the birds
That visit the
Corner patch
Of green
You watch
From your window,
Your chair
Close by
The radiator,
Your tea beside you
On the small table.

Is It All Workaday to Them?

Now I’m near the sea
And the wonder of seagulls.

As yet, they’re all one to me,
Copies carried on the wind
Above the quay.

I don’t know any of them

Is it all workaday to them,
The soaring they do
On those snazzy wings,
The fantastical moments
Fixed on a breeze over
A patch of water
That might be hiding
A meal?

Or do they, as I hope,
Also take to the air
Just to be up there,
Inheritors of a
Marvelous gift?

She Might Have Said

“They came for me,”
She might have said.
But what difference
Would it have made
If I’d been sure?
Was some hand,
Poised over paper,
Having had leave
To record only
The inarguable?
What report, really,
Can be called
Completely honest
If offered without
The asterisk
Of irreducible