Here are Sunday afternoon shoppers where another time ago the silence of religious observation hung penitentially, or, on occasion, a club match in O’Connor Park might see a procession of…

There she stands with her broad back and a birth bulge stomach. We wait an anticipating hour, leaning at the door, patient as a January night-star. But no stir of…

On the days before Christmas Grandma made her greasy mutton stew or her pot of boiled potatoes swimming in cabbage soup; but for ‘afters’ there were mince pies and coffee…

And God asked: Where were you when my children were murdered? Where were you when they cried until they were numbed To the loss of their mothers, fathers and families?…

As the ice receded leaving fresh water to fill the fissures of earth, it was maybe in the time of the Fir Bolg or the Tuatha De Danann, they came…

Howard Jones’ ‘No one is to blame’ pipes through a café in Mullingar in the beat and thrust of electronified syncopation. Am I the only one here stopping for coffee…

There are no cars parked outside Nanny Quinn’s, the barges lie silent in the cooling summer, as Royal Canal water, seeped in the clays of peat and prickly gorse, glides…