One bell
tempered in new sun, quenched with wet leaves
will be enough to wake to.
It will toll a different hour
to the opening stock market and rolling news.
The skin of the air will shine.
A green world will remember it has work to do
as we remember we don’t.
This may be the day we live decades
as if everything we loved was
for the first time.
One pepper
between flesh and tender deliquescence
will be enough to feast upon.
It will seed our tongues
with the supple Earth, olives and woodsmoke.
Our plates will be haloes.
The terrace will knot with fruiting vines
to hold us captive.
This may be the hour we live most of all
As if everything we loved was
for only a moment
One storm
ripping pages from distant mountain ranges
will be enough to sleep through.
It will start a forest fire
when lightning guillotines through the valley.
Our blinds will rattle like dice.
The room will sigh for breath before rain
falls as hot and soft as late figs.
This may be the night we live forever
as if everything we loved was
for the last time.
Winner of the Westival International Poetry Prize, Ireland
Mark Fiddes 