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.

Morning Song

Sun, 05 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

A demonstration of the poem shortcode, which preserves line breaks exactly as written.

The kettle clicks. Outside, a blackbird tests the morning with three cautious notes. Light finds the table, the crumbs from last night, the book left open at the page where sleep arrived. There is no hurry. The day will assemble itself from these small, unhurried pieces.

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.

Harbour

Tue, 12 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

At low tide the harbour empties to mud and the ribs of old boats. The water goes out like a secret someone decided to keep. We sat on the wall and ate chips. The vinegar stung a cut on my thumb. You said something about the future. The gulls were not interested. The tide came back, as tides do, and covered everything we had been looking at.

Thread

Tue, 05 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

In the sewing box: a thimble, three buttons from a coat nobody remembers wearing, and a length of thread still knotted at one end. She could fix anything. The thread is evidence. The knot is proof of intention. The coat is gone but the buttons remain, patient as stones.

Glass

Fri, 01 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

There was a pane of glass in the back door that had a bubble in it. When you looked through the bubble, the garden bent. The apple tree swam. They replaced the door eventually. The new glass was perfect. I never looked through it.

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.