The Blind Commute

Gerard Fanning

In this broad church of reeds and grasses
at the north-west tip of Booterstown Marsh

two marker posts wait for a lick
of Hammerite or windy gloss

to cosy up like a ruined script,
to connive in a channel or spit

like that cut from Leitrim’s village wharf
or the eel-like shimmy of the lonely

Scarriff River, but stall mid-sentence
bumping up against the blacktop

of an endless grey-green Bayeux
scrolling tall tales from ribbons of chrome

a tickertape stuttering morse
like mustard seeds snagged in a fingernail

or a path to nowhere trying to atone
with false exits blurred in mist and rain.