Mark Redden

Seamus is off now to the cold wet bog pen slung on shoulder strap good thick boots a shovel in…

up there on a kite of hunger empty  belly hocks and spits dreams far ahead to chase catch and wrestle…

where is Beaudelaire? on horseback swolen eyed, chased by mortors cheek chiseled by serving years spinning delight, the fruit of…

green, green, green a hill of patriot boots stacked outside the hindered explorers’ club

Alabaster Ariadne, her golden thread from dark stone to the light it led to a glade so green empty of strife, leaves and…

I’ll never dance in santo spirito lost for words in the dome’s bright armour letters reach around giotto’s tower horses…

walking in Wicklow awake in the woods absorbed in freckled yellow light, warm and dusty the colonial nave this enveloping…