The Fall Poem by Matt Mooney

The smallest thing is the greatest sting -
the afternoon is hot and you're not here
to share my ice cream cone with me.

I see your canvas shoe and sock
and it shows how things have changed
since your ankle went from under you
coming down the Cliffs of Moher
just when the day was clearing up,
the Aran Islands rising out of the sea.

We stood around surreal,
trading words to take us through
until the para-medics came
and stretchered you downhill.

My snaps of spume like candy floss
spiralling higher every time
and furious waves rising and crashing
against the jagged fortress
are of little interest any more
while you are in there in theatre.
Instead I want you walking again,
anywhere in Ireland or on earth,
so long as you are there beside me.