Twisted
The Black Canal crawls towards The Basin. Christmas
stumbling down Raven Terrace with carry-outs and
junk food; someone stops to vomit from the twinkling bridge.
Friends in Santa hats urge her on like demented midwives.
This is no soft saxophone time, no Stille Nacht,
more metal, heavy, twisted. The last night-calls
fade off the street, babes get tucked into mangers and the
moon steps from her limo, pale-faced, dressed to kill.
Tempting, Tempting
Out there
on the frozen lake
our movements will be graceful.
Pine trees receding,
the ice growing wafer thin,
we will skate on,
exhilarated,
strange fish,
some beautiful,
all the colours of the rainbow,
appearing under our feet.
We will not be deterred
even by the cracking,
drawn, as always,
to the very centre,
the softest spot.
Gerard Hanberry lives in Galway. He has published two collections, Rough Night (2002) and Something Like Lovers (2005), with Stonebridge Press Publications (UK).
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