January 8th – 14th

January 8th

January 8th

Lights flicker and twinkle,
reflecting in the pavement puddles.
Streets quiet save for
the occasional
whoosh of passing cars.

Inside, laughter and chatter
bubbles and blooms
in crowded cacophonous bars.

Bright lights and polished wood;
Menus scrawled elegantly on chalkboards-
diamond jewellery glints,
gold watches glitter.

High above the beautiful people
on a shelf artfully arrayed with curios,
two lizards lie
in a bottle of liquor
far from home.



January 9th

January 9th

Split asunder
as if tearing old from new,
the skies loom

On the horizon,
deepest violet makes way
for a delicate ethereal blue
as the wind whisks
the remnants of the working week,
laying the heavens bare.


January 10th

January 10th

Tiempo. Tempo. Temps.
Unassailable, irreversible

No matter where,
a second is still a second.
Time marches on,
ignoring pleas of:

“Just one more minute”
“If I had the time”
“It wasn’t her time to go”

When we have it,
we waste it,
until it’s almost
And then we desperately
want more.

10 minutes at a deathbed
is a million miles
from 10 minutes in a waiting room.



January 11th

Is it normal
that the main feature of a city –
one that dominates the skyline –
advertises mortality?

Does it serve to remind us that
life is short?
That no matter what,
we are equal in death?

Or is it a comfort
that our loved ones
watch over us
until the time
when we join them?

‘Sure there’s time enough to sleep when you’re dead.’

Maybe it’s advertising
one huge
sleepover. The craic’s 90 in the cemetery.



January 12th

Like shards of glass
they stand tall over the city
thrusting through the haze
of the pollution
coursing through the maze
of streets and boulevards.

A rosy glow hangs
over the city,
smothering it.

Cuatro torres glint
in the evening sunlight.
Four daggers thrust
deep into the heart of the city.



January 13th

Stone by stone
they moved it.
Each slab of marble
stained with the
sweat of the slaves
who gave their lives
to build this lasting legacy
so carelessly gifted away.


January 14th

Perched high above the city,
a bird’s eye view.
Keeping watch-
or monitoring?
Protector or inquisitor?
Amidst the graceful
understated edifices
stands the spindly
symbol of the future.

Wood Bee Poet

Poems, thoughts...etc.

The Pledge

Fired! Irish Women Poets and the Canon

Nicola Heaney

Writer & Poet


'She would say to discover / the true depth of a well, / drop a stone, / start counting.' - Andrew Greig

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