Poetry on first-folio.demo.lobb.ie

The Cartographer

Mon, 10 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

She drew the roads from memory, the river where it used to run, the bridge they took down in the nineties. She marked the shop that sold paraffin, the tree where the owl sat every January, the gap in the wall you could squeeze through if you were ten and determined. None of this was on any official map. All of it was true.

Four Fields

Mon, 01 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The first field is the one you crossed at seven, grass to the waist, the dog ahead. The second is the one you saw from the train, gold in September, already someone else's. The third field you walked through arguing. The rain came. You kept arguing. The fourth field is the one you dream about: flat, enormous, and always just behind you.

Small Hours

Fri, 18 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The fridge hums its one note. A tap drips in the dark like a clock that forgot what it was counting. You stand at the window. The street is all amber and nothing. A cat crosses the road with tremendous purpose. You pour the milk. You drink the milk. You go back to bed knowing nothing has changed but something has shifted.