“Rock Pools” – Craig Teatime

As a child I searched rock pools left aside by the tide, tried to redraw picture books in real life, from the shelf I could reach up to, which divided to a full page double spread of a watercolor a child painted, better than I could draw. The escapades of an Ann or a Barry if the book was Irish, or a Tom or Harry if they were English, telling the reader, still reading slow in big print of the bounty living in ecosystems out there where mum or dad might drive you if you’re good.   Though it was only a harbour in Dún Laoghaire, but still here where the pier sloped lay pools of warm water, held up to inspection in rocky palms, living with strands of electric green seaweed deathless in air, but filled foliage in the glassy water there, and held tight to the water lips...

“Joan Is My Mother’s Name” – Craig Teatime

The night of our life, And the home that could be, It’s mostly just a room, With enough beds for a group of sleazy English lads, Or the accounting department catching a weekend off, To quench that age-old ambition Of a weekend bender abroad.   Ha-ha, see – It’s less of an apartment and more of a factory, Our Airbnb. I’ve heard of the Czech spring rising — Until the tanks closed in on those soft children And the Vltava was stripped of all its blue, Closing tight and killing any chance of life, The way that those who can close, do. Yet still for us, This is Prague in autumn, The music from the greasy bar rising up to the window sill that’s Broken and doesn’t close, Mind the shower’s cracked tray, Skin oils cold on bed clothes. The host knows, But what’s there to say – it was...