Colin Hassard

Close To The Water

On a bright Sunday morning, with winter’s 
white skin sticking to places that should be green, 
we meet by the canal as almost strangers;
to build biographies around our names.

There is a purpose for all of this: the clomp of boots 
on the narrow towpath, the surge of water like static 
on a radio, how she twists the gold ring on her finger 
as if striving to find a familiar frequency. We stop
 
by the lock and observe the flow. She asks if I’m lonely. 

In a child’s drawing, we would be stick-figures speaking
in thought bubbles, and the water would be blue; 
the colour of serenity, loyalty, sincerity. But we know 
that beneath us are murky hues of olive and black. 

Yet the water could still cleanse us. A finger to assess 
the coldness. A hand. An arm. Persevere deeper until 
each shivering cell in our bodies is focused solely on survival. 
Only then can we rise from the trench determined 

to find purpose in the enduring flood of sadness.

You're There Now

You’re there now sitting on your old sofa
with the knitted rug & matching cushions
surrounded by jazz records & ideas
& on the wall are postcards & a map
of New York City & a calendar

& the coal bucket overflows with news
& the tea is brewed strong & the teapot
sits on a chopping-board & the room smells
of vanilla & sometimes cheese & the
book on the meaning of dreams is missing

& beside the door is a bicycle
& the door is open to let the breeze
circle the room & carry the off-key
notes out into summer & on Friday

you’ll relax in a warm bath of seaweed
carried in a sack from Connemara

& no-one cares about any of this
except those who remember what love is.