As we sing the alphabet,
making phonetic sounds,
each letter a note
to later piece a word
in the music of language,
the nature table emerges
on which rest; tulips in a paintbrush holder,
seashells from Laytown and Arklow
and pheasant feathers carefully plucked,
the birds shot down in Ballivor
that roamed the bogs and walked the roads
in pairs adding to the dull, colour.
On the wall there are maps - of the continents
and of the bright solar system.
By the mirror, a poster of butterfly and moth varieties.
Hope is in the daffodil painted
upon the window pane, prematurely done
in a bid to lure spring.
On the pivot of the weather we are dependent.
By mid-day without rain
we go outside to sunshine,
caught between walking and running
when once we were
oblivious to the hairy caterpillar
climbing the shed whitewash