Dark turf The breeze stirred ferns on the high bank. I watched you drop down the layers of Cloneen bog, then another spit into half-opened fist before sléan sliced down, slurping out turf, heaving them over your right shoulder, away from the heart. I clutch their sogginess against my navy jumper, don’t drop them, you say, as I slapped them onto the trolley before tossing out, while you take the red and white Carroll’s cigarette packet from your collarless shirt pocket. December night when we laid you out, drinking...
