After the Race

 

At the track practice

when Brother Al said

that it looked like

you were running from the devil,

all you said was ‘Sort of.’

You had just changed

out of short pants.

 

The sky is not all blue,

edges are fuzzy grey,

sometimes the colour is so full,

like after a race,

it takes a while

to catch your breath.

Long pants were not what you thought,

it was harder to run.

 

You remember taking the long way home

from Johnny Tom’s funeral

not to walk with your parents.

you felt crowded by your angel

and walked in the gutter

on even the wettest days.

 

The daffodils are trembling

in the March hail

and the dirty little snowdrops,

no one knows where they are now.

 

 

Noel Conneely's work has appeared in Poetry Ireland, Cimarron Review, Willow Review, Coe Review and elsewhere. He lives in Dublin.