Trish Delaney

Only the Dogs & Falling

Trish Delaney

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Only the Dogs

Outside kids sweat laughter during a game of kerbs

A toddler, no sun hat, bangs a stick off a barrel. Otto

wakes beside me on the duvet, neck muscles taut,

ears pricked, a prolonged crook-toothed growl.

Neddy shifts from my feet down to the slick shade

of the window ledge. He yawns in passive assessment.

You call and I rise from my side of the bed, picking

steps between dog and floor until I’m in the hall.

You have it all packed up, boxed and bare, as empty

as that field beyond the balcony, the sun's nugatory effort

in multiplication, clumps of clay that disintegrate on touch

like our lost seedlings slipping their way through memory.

If I left now only the dogs would follow me.


Suspended, floating face-down on moonlit water,

suspecting the waves endless lull that lures

you back to the beach, drifting in that dark rift

of skyline and shore where every shell contains 

a creature that must breathe underwater...

hammer heart unsteady, you kick once more,

lungs grasping for air— and oh, your fingers brush

sand — knees scrabbling, gasping, you emerge

with sleep-locked eyes in the same dry clothes.

Trish Delaney

Trish Delaney is originally from Wexford but currently lives in Dublin where she works in programmatic ad operations for an Irish advertising agency. She writes her poetry as an escape from the world of maths and calculations that dominate her working day. Some of her previous work has been published in Skylight 47,The Galway Review,,, Oddball Magazine and as poem of the week on