Ronan O’Neill

Ronan still lives in the same small Armagh village where he was born in the early 1970s, and like almost all others reared in the wee North during that period had a soul indelibly smelt to a certain temper. Having studied and worked in Dublin and Glasgow, hes happy to be home again among the thriving descendants of the rabbits, ragwort and wynds of his youth. As long as the days keep coming, Ronan appreciates more and more the survival instincts of other abler civil servants of this island such as Ryan, O’Driscoll, O’Nolan and Hewitt and the saving grace of occasionally writing down a few words that hang well together.

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Vapour Trail

Someone ahead is

puffing out strawberries.

Jostling my path with

mammoth, toppley fruit.

Head in the cloud,

sowing summer happy

along this

pickled concrete route.

Soft berry barricades,

fictionally sized.

Bulging and bouncing,

jamming me sideways.

Dribbling my chin.

Side-hustling my nose.

Tickling and tingling,

tugging a smile.

Bustling me back

from a bleaker turnstile.

Nicotine sneers

and nicotine

nags,

but forget that pedlar,

he’s a drag.

Hazes come

and some do pollute.

But everyone’s mornings

need more fruit.