Writing

Brón Michael

Brón, Brón Michael

Talking to pigeons on the pigeon stump

Your hair made me nervous

Selling Peter your kleenex

It’s summertime Brón, what’s wrong?

I put two copper coins inside your arm

And off you run

Waving metal pipes around your head

Waving at your best friend

Talk to me again about your shoes

That’s why I took a shine to you

On the bus home

Singing about pale, green ceramic tiles

And the dirt under your fingernails

You know you’re the only one 

Who can read my father’s writing

I get pictures when you read

Of what his life must have been like

I can see him through your eyes

I know he spent a long time alone

With hands that were burning

And Brón

Dreaming of paintings he never got to make

A painter's ghost

Kind and broken

A graveyard in my paint set

You know Brón

We did have fun 

Pissing

On frogs

In our backyard

Tinkling keys

On cheap 

Pound shop synths

Preset beats

Shuffling feet

Pis splash

On paving stones

On jelly shoes

The sobs

Is any time spent wasted?

Who knows

I am ok today 

I don’t burn toast

I keep kindness close

I sit 

In my garden

Naming flowers

Giving wasps

My ice pops 

I sip 

Cheap wine

From my favourite mug

I listen

To Spanish horse racing

Repair deck chairs

Dodge life’s blisters

With hands that are burning and Brón

Dreaming of paintings 

He never got to make

A painter’s ghost

Kind and broken

A graveyard in my paint set