Poetry

 

 

Matthew Sweeney

Pan on the Pink Bridge

I saw Pan today on the pink bridge
waving his red boots. I heard him
before I saw him, tootling his flute,
up there, over the dual-carriageway,
with its cars beetling to Fermoy,
to Portlaoise, to Dublin. It was a Chinese
jig he was playing, and my feet,
like his hidden hooves, were dancing
so much I had to stop driving, then
get out to prance on the hard shoulder,
alongside the others bouncing there,
howling out in tune to the notes of Pan,
who slowly began to be swallowed by fog,
through which his muffled music continued,
less Chinese now, more Steppes-Russian,
until with a final flourish it stopped.
After some minutes, we rejoined our cars,
drove away, peering through the murk,
glancing in our mirrors, listening hard,
grateful for this visit of Great God Pan.

 

Sleeping

She's sleeping, and it's not late.
She was tired, very tired.
Those fajitas, preceded by
tequila, were far too much.
That film about dwarfs
sent her to another place.
The bedclothes called her in.
The moon has a cloud ruff.

Beneath it, the rats scurry
round the overflowed bin.
The phone rings, and I let it.
She did the dishes, then read
her China book, half-asleep.
Oh, oh, the poor houseplants—
I'd better water them, then
try to photograph the moon.

 

 

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