The world turned grey,
the pigeons withdrew
their morning quarrels.
The wild parrots
are grounded,
their feathered breasts
a shock of yellow
mottling this relentless
bed of ash.
Daddy,
I think about Shake Keane
and his Empire cigarettes.
I blink as the sulphur stings my eyes
and rasp hello to my neighbour as he
sweeps his porch.
I think about how you were swimming
in Sion Hill Bay
the last good Friday
the mountain woke.
I think about how, now,
I am a hundred miles away
across a cobalt sea,
the ash scratching my throat.
I imagine you would
shake your head and say,
“Life, eh?”
its mysterious ways and
wonders being performed.