An Lár. A poem by Billy O Hanluain

The minutes
cross dress as
hours and the days
slip into loose, dream
sewn months. Time
stares at her bruised
reflection in the changing
room mirror. One size
fits all.

It’s only been a month
but it feels like
The Seven Year Itch.
Scratching the
Cul de Sac nerve ends
of my State arranged
marriage to Suburbia.

Oh there were good enough
days at first. Or were
they hours?
She wore me out
with walking. Through her
lawns, crescents and heights.
My fingers plucking her black
painted railings,
patent like hair clips
parting fringes of
brown clay.

Carnal Cleptos, we were,
stealing kisses in her
secluded side streets,
Undressing her addresses.
Seducing me with her
neatly trimmed front gardens,
the euphoria of her swollen
property prices and the
strict discipline of
her private schools.
Her triple glazing.
A dash of Pebble
Car showroom
drive ways. Landrovers
crunching the gravel
like clenched fists.
Her Dutch designed
office over garage
I traced my finger
along the outline of
her postcode tattoos.
D 12, D6, D6w

Her mute bell tower
no one diggin’
her digits.
Quiet enough to hear the hidden
Swan gurgle, like a hunger,
beneath her
low tide streets. Always
talking to me about the
past with her fella
in The Stella. Dancing
The Time Warp Again
in her lost Classic.
about her
Elephants and Castles

She poured the
first drinks.
Two glasses
of Bushey Park.
Shot through
me like a promise.
Swirl of
pond and poultry.
Elation of slopes.
The sudden rush
of open space.
Two glasses of
Bushey Park
slurred into six.

Deja vu of a
time when I might have
done Bushey Park
twice a year.
It is everyday now.
Powerless of over her
phantom pitches.
I’m hard on
the parks now
few times a day
just to stay steady
Weaning myself off with
quiet roads never hits
the highlights like
the parks do.
Back worse than ever,
three laps of
Bushey a day now.

Waking with
the shakes
find the cure
with a stroll
of Dodder

Morning drinking Dodder.
Full bottle of
Bushey Park in the afternoon
Lunch. Nap. Up and out.
A cheeky mid afternoon Poddle
before hitting the Bushey
in the evening again
in time for the
last light.

One month in to my marriage.

Stuck at home
getting wasted on parks.
hung over on Bushey.
Remembering my ex
the woman the bus drivers call
“An Lár”


  1. What a great poem by the maestro

  2. Brilliant!

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