Coney Island, Lough Neagh

‘Next year is never
Now is the only time.’

P Kavanagh

As the clouds re-form,
I play with their mirror-image
Of memory, ripple their grey
On grey with the slightest touch
Of my hand: the green stretch,
A little raised sky-line on the flat
Disc of water. Yesterday
Is also today: I come as to an open
Wound asking whether the healing has begun.

Now, the lighter colours
Of last year are no longer
Reflected in the same calm
But even the berries of autumn
Would not pierce its tranquillity.
All its dark patches come
Out of the lining of my coat waiting
For snow to cover and console.

After the exhibition closed,
I should have gone home,
But I stood at the window,
Excluded from future openings,,
Watching the street in the glass
Transformed into line and
Colours and composition: the painting

Never finished, the paint
Never dry, and more of it
For sale. I have almost forgotten
Coney Island’s reflection, but
Perhaps some yesterday will
Become today’s tomorrow.