A Little Tart

Like a knife through my heart is the sight
of my husband with a little tart by his side.
He thinks I don't know, that he's covered his tracks,
that I've not seen him go right to the back
of my secret store of the Snickers and Twix,
the chocolate galore, oh he's taking a risk
when he goes back for more.

Now that he's stumbled on my precious hide,
now I've been rumbled I'll turn a blind eye
because there's the danger that he may have seen
how I've munched through the stuff that is for Hallowe'en.
He may also have noticed my trove of fine crisps
and the Freddos and Roses that I claim don't exist.
I'll move them of course, bit by bit, on the sly
and cut off the source of his bit on the side.

That's how it begins, one tart here, one tart there, 
tin foil cups binned, resealing the tear.
He must have a hunch, sure, that there's only tract
for one secret muncher in our double act.
I know, on reflection, that it cannot be he,
I need my confection all kept for me,
I need the Maltesers to enhance the odd mocha,
the poor trick-or-treaters may be left with Berocca.

For now, I'll allow it while I look for a place
to hide what I cherish, I'll lock it away.
The mince pies mislaid, it may well break his heart, 
and he'll miss his affair with that little tart.

(Explanation: My secret stash of all things sweet was recently discovered by my husband who, said nothing, just sneakily helped himself to a mince pie and made it look like nothing had been taken. I hate mince pies, they're only there to make it look like the collection is for Christmas when, in fact, I keep it stocked up all year long and dip into it for a chocolate fix when I need it. The reference to there being nothing left for the trick-or-treaters except Berocca tablets was something funny my cousin's wife said in 2010.  Úna and I were both pregnant at the same time and were talking about eating the bowls of goodies at our respective doors before any trick-or-treaters arrived.)

In My View

The farmer's field is in our vision
A scene of sheep, nothing hidden.
I sip the coffee and am sad to know
this will be cut off when our trees all grow.
Commotion erupts in the slow-moving view,
emotion interrupts my morning brew:
The ram was set to ram
but the ewes were on refuse.
Some outran him, sought to ban him,
one couldn't lose him, instead bemused him
with go and start, bound then sit,
so up he'd hop but found no grip.
She appeared to be complicit, then become aloof,
he veered and bit, and hit by throwing a left hoof.
She wasn't flustered, just not sold.
A hundred others joined the fold,
she ran with them and used the cover,
left the ram to choose another.
She stayed well back and watched him choose
and then relaxed as willing ewes
stood still to mate, set and prone.
I just can't wait for the trees to grow.

(Explanation: I saw this unfold before me this morning. I wish very much that I could unsee it!)

Wave The Thistle

Bonnie bonnie Scotland,
when will be see your like?
How proud you stand
with your demands,
no threats of force or strike.
In a world full of unrest you took
full calmy to the polls
to wave the thistle for Hollyrood
and wake the shamrock, leek and rose.
Should old acquaintance be forgot?
In Robbie Burns' name.
Such absorbing news as we watched
Scots rise up and Scots wha hae
and made them all think again.

(Explanation: On 9th September 2014 I wrote this poem after Scotland voted against independence and to stay part of the United Kingdom. I doubt I was the only Irish person riveted by the build up to the voting day, it was fascinating. In all the turmoil and bad news from all corners of the earth I found it, not just interesting, but a relief, to have the TV and radio buzzing with something other than death and disease.)