Shannon Fields

A stoat slithered below 
the surface of the water, 
heron stalked the shallows.    
The woman who exercised    
every day wore a niqab.   
Her husband counted    
repetitions, smoked    
and eyeballed locals    
he didn’t trust. Who was it    
that brushed their dog’s coat   
by the edge of the canal?   
I thought it was a sheep carcass  
at first. A fluffy massacre   
all the way to the bridge.   
Then the river rose so high    
it spilled onto the footpath, 
reclaiming the land, the trees.    
They got their toes wet.    
Síonna, breadth of wisdom, 
more than a god, I gave you my time, 
my mornings for a year and more.    
But I’m afraid. I passed unnoticed.

By Colm Brennan
Published in The Ogham Stone, Universtiy of Limerick, June 2019
Edited by Dr Carrie Griffin

  • Shortlist, Red Line Festival Poetry Competition (2022)
    Judged by Jessica Traynor

    Read Portrait #2 Oscar here.

  • “Sam took the shank from Becky and put his thumb in Blaze’s mouth to force his jaw open. The horse stepped back, the whites of his eyes showing and tried to pull his head free. Then he stood. Sam held onto the halter in such a way that it would hurt if Blaze tried to pull away again. Sam refused to twist a horse’s ear, claiming it was cruel. By doing it this way, he said, if Blaze got hurt, it was his own fault.”

    Journal: Profiles (2022)
    Edited by Clare Healy, Sarah Sturzel & Djamel White

    Get a copy of Profiles journal here.

  • The Cormorant Broadsheet (2018) / The Cormorant (2021)
    Edited by Louise Keneddy, Eoin McNamee & Una Manion

    The Cormorant Broadsheet
    Read Corner Boy’s Apprentice here

  • Journal: The Ogham Stone (2018)
    Editor in chief, Dr Carrie Griffin

    theoghamstoneul.com
    Read Shannon Fields here

  • Journal: Poetry Ireland Review (124, 2018)
    Edited by Eavan Boland

    Selected for Poetry on the Dart (Poetry Day Ireland, 2018)

    Read Mindfulness on the Poetry Ireland website.

  • “Jackie used to come in at half-ten. He’s gone and all. Years ago. Now on a Sunday Jack comes in at lunchtime. He stops off in the booking-shop first. Picks us each a nag and we watch them lose together. He’s a good boy. He organized for the girl to come in. He said I wasn’t looking after myself. Fingernails like rat claws. Mad long hair. It was yellow and all because I smoke so much. Love the fags, I do.“

    Journal: The South Circular (2012)
    Edited by Aoife Walshe

    Read Ballroom here