Knute Skinner Poems

Go, take the path
that leads down by wooded ways
and beyond to the river.
...

I shudder thinking
of the cold Irish earth.
The firelighter flares
...

Not my father but my mother.
That's who you see on the footpath,
holding my hand while I look at the bears.
...

'You're plying me with drink,' I say,
looking into my second glass of Smithwicks,
sitting at Tim Murphy's bar
...

In the city of Waterford
a fifteenth-century mayor,
prosperous at the fairs
...

The planet that we plant upon
rolls through its orbit of the sun,
bending our grass upon the breeze.
...

Your lonely hill was dear to you, as was
The hedge which masked your view of the horizon.
I read your words here in my home in Clare
...

I passed through the door,
their laughter behind me.
...

An afternoon quiet
fell on the room.
I sat there composed.
...

'She's back again?'
'She is,' he answered, crossing to the locker
and rummaging for his boots.
...