Roots And Wings

By Frances Browner

An assured debut collection of poems by Irish author, Frances Browner, which evokes an intense array of emotions, with beautiful tributes to her parents, the love so evident in each poem. The whole collection paints a vivid picture of a person and a time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463038468

Frances Browner

Frances Browner grew up in Dublin, lived in New York for twenty years and now resides in Greystones, Co. Wicklow. Her poems have appeared in Skylight 47, Tales from the Forest, Poems on the Edge, The Ogham Stone, Irish Examiner, Ink Sweat & Tears, A New Ulster, Cold Coffee Stand, Bray Arts Journal, Poetry24, Boyne Berries and on Limerick’s Poetry Trail, Poetry Walls and ‘Bring your Limerick to Limerick’ finals. Her Micro-Chapbook of fifteen poems, Selfies, was launched online by Ghost City Press, Syracuse, New York, in their summer series, July 2019. She has had short stories and memoir pieces published and broadcast on radio and currently tutors creative writing and history with Dun Laoghaire/Dublin ETB. Frances facilitates the weekly workshop, Scríobh Arís, for Greystones Cancer Support and the monthly Poets Parlour open-mic in Greystones.

Book preview

A tower of burnt toast on the table

Melted butter dribbling our chins

Porridge glued to the saucepot jellied

Tea to trot a mouse on . . . image in

Clothes drying on the radiator

Whiff of Sunlight, Ariel, Surf

Ma making lunches, two cuts of bread

And a banana mashed black, strawberry

Jam for buzzing bees in the schoolyard

Baby shuffles the floor on his bum

Da snaps his newspaper shut and we

File out one by one . . . indifferent

Seven of us into the Volkswagen

Into marriages; immigration

Care full families of our own

THE LOCK HOUSE

We peered into the well, saw our

Faces reflected there. Granny

Plunged a bucket into a deep black hole

Splish-splashing spots of water on us.

Younger cousins scurried away

Squealing; Grandad minding them

From the gander, the bullock, the cock.

I remained, staring into the abyss

Forehead scrunched with wonder.

Smoke spooled from a far-off train.

We skipped over steps to the scullery

Granny wiping her hands on a floury

Apron, smudges of it in her wispy hair.

Griddle bread browned on the range

Turf fire crackled, an apple tart baked on

The lid of a pot, its sugar burnt to treacle.

We scraped the sweet toffee with spoons

Teeth glued, until the stickiness dissolved.

In the lamplight, Grandad made shapes

With his fingers. Bird, bunny rabbit, cat

We shouted from the settle bed, shadows

Magically adorning the kitchen wall.

Next morning, the bed was folded into a

Wide wooden bench for us to sit on while

Granny boiled eggs from the hen-house

For breakfast, tapped the shells to let out

A yellowy yoke for soldiers of toast.

Off into town on the ass and cart for

The pension, gob stoppers, bullseyes

Penny bars, Quenchers. Home to swing on

Two tyres from a branch; help Grandad

Open gates for the boats, get a carry-on

To the next Lock. Walk home along the

Line, a sixpenny bit warming our palm.

Swig from a bottle of red lemonade

Compliments of the kindly boatman.

Bales of hay pricked our legs,

As we drank tea with men in a field

Whiffed their pipe tobacco, an outside

Lavatory. A rat kept chewing, kept

Staring at me; I stared back unable

To move. Mad cows chased the children

Their shrieks echoing the woods.

My face a fright in the deep

Dark mirror of the Well.

I return now to the Lock house with its

Falling-down walls. Bushes sprout from

Where the roof used to be, shrubs

Cover the steps, concealing a crack

In the family tree. The Well is dried up

Granny’s cuddles, the rattle of crockery.

Canal waters lap that once lulled us

To sleep; a solitary barge bobs by