The lights are going out

In cottages all over Ireland

For the Old man, the Widow, and the Dog

Children flown, if not Canada, Perth, or London,

Then a one-bed in dockland Dublin.

Their future not in white walled houses

Scuttery pens and mucky yards.

Only Him, and Her, in dim lights,

Soon they will go out.


The lights are going out

In villages all over Ireland,

The old and feeble not meeting anyone.

Post office, bank, police station, pub,

Once friendly useful talking shops, now quiet.

Now gone online,  if you had a line.

Or could see the phone in the half-dark,

In the cottage where the lights are going out.

To be followed soon by Him and Her.


Martin Swords              January 2017