Paul T Dillon






Friend Passing


This good man our friend

Was light as a pillow on Sunday

When we lifted him like a raggedy doll

From the dip of his mattress and carried him

To the long window facing West


There he perched like an N on the sill

Hands hugging knees

Calling out to the musicians

As they arrived below in his yard

In ones and two’s scattering the chickens


Making a circle

With whatever they could sit on

Barrels boxes hay bales

The remains of a drystone wall

The grand circle was made closed complete


Instruments tuned words were few

The playing began

With fiddles guitars uilleann pipes

In came the Irish flutes and the heart beat

Thrum of the bodhrán drums


Our dear friend delicate in the window frame

Tap tapping his foot

The animated circle below

Wore the faces of wanted men and women

Stern determined concentrated eyes gleaming


Playing their hearts out giving it everything then her voice


Through the ears

Into the blood it went

A flood of notes tunes rhythms

Celtic beats and song that the heart knows and

Longs for when abroad in the world or going on a journey


Light as a pillow on Sunday

Light on our shoulders

The following Thursday

Each of us mad ones thankful

We had done something right on that sun ripe day


We knew because his going didn’t feel like an ending more like

The powerful presence of an unbroken circle in the heart of our tree






Is silence the presence

Or absence of something or no thing?

Perhaps both or neither

And if silence did speak

Where then

Would we be without it?




Coracle of the Moon


The silver coracle of the moon

Has slipped

And tipped her dreamer overboard

Into a chaos of fiery stars

That from a distance

Appear as kindly sentinels pointing

Towards some sacred sanctuary

Beyond the grip of imagination and

The terrible gravity of fear






Adrift before sleep

Thoughts rising from the deep

Others sinking into it

Closed eyes fix

On a vague horizon darkening

Soft come the words

Spoken by loved ones

And just before sleep

Comes the parade

Of a million yesterdays

You smiling eyes bright

Filled with that fragile life

Of which your ration

Was so ungenerous




Dream States



The intimate labyrinth

Library without index

In here I alone am the crowd

That makes me nervous













Paul T Dillon lives with his family in Greystones, Co Wicklow, Ireland. His work is published in poetry magazines and literary journals in Ireland, the United Kingdom and the United States. Last year his first book of poetry, Going Home, was published by Lapwing Publications, Belfast, Northern Ireland. He has won commendations for his work and been nominated for the Forward Prize by Poetry Bus, one of Ireland’s leading poetry journals. He has worked all his professional life in communications including print and broadcast journalism and international crisis communications. He is in the process of completing his second collection, The Ironmonger’s Wolf, which he expects to be published in the Summer 2017.



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