Enagh

In summer a glut of red-finned rudd,

their far-off rings at twilight;

talk of a subterranean stream to the river

brought visions of shadowy trout;

the star-splash and midge cloud;

a bulrush reed-bed skirting the island

of unearthed megalithic bones;

bird-song in whitethorns;

a dead fox pinned to a fir tree;

coot-chasing dogs, Sunday speedboats

quaking the quiet church-ruin;

scuttle of water rat and rabbit.

But mostly cold cawing rooks

in a winter rookery; black nests

in black scores of skeletal trees

lining ice-margins in thorny bays;

the jack-pike on ledgered herring,

pulled from the lough's cold womb

into a first flurry of snow;

and us boys honking like snow geese.

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Monkeys: There are no monkeys here. If you're looking for monkeys, go away. Well, actually there are monkeys, but they're of the hairless variety that writes poetry and such. If that's not what you're looking for move along.