Last April my poem ‘It’s Time’ was published in the Arts and Books section of the Saturday Irish Times. This was very gratifying because the Times has a big circulation and not since I was published all those years ago in The Irish Press by David Marcus, and some years ago in The Sunday Tribune by Ciaran Carty have I had such publicity. Both of these newspapers have since disappeared, and I strongly contest any suggestion that my poetry was in any way responsible.
A big thank you to the Irish Times Literary Editor Gerard Smyth and all the poets who sent congratulations. Who ever said that poets were not nice people?
The poem is a seasonal one and tries to pin down that moment when you go outdoors one morning early and think: Yes! It’s here at last. Spring!
You’ll say: What nonsense. Spring comes gradually. Well, it does. And it doesn’t.
The jasmine bush absorbs a crystal sky
not seen for months. The sodden mess of leaves
that clogged the path all winter now is dry
and ready to be swept. There’s something sharp
about the sunlight blinds the eye this morning –
stems have straightened up, the wheelie bin
has taken on a strange new lustre.
This the first day he has shone in earnest,
edging over boundary walls and hedges
to inspect our winter graveyards. Days
of early dark and icy outside taps
are numbered. When I creak the shed door open,
shears and spade blink in the corner: come,
the world must be newmade. It’s time.