perhappened mag
issue 1: CARNIVAL
a twelve-foot garden in
hazel park, co. galway
LAOISE NÍ RAGHALLAIGH
We hung string lights in the garden the other night.
They twist around the washing line we never used, trembling
in the Galway breeze. I’d have liked a volley of lights;
enveloping the apple tree, criss-crossing the shed,
a single spark on every petal that falls.
It would add dimension, highlight
where ours ends, and beyond begins.
But this will do, for now.
Burnt sugar lingers in the air,
a little offshoot of scent wending through the open window
from where I left the biscuits in the oven
a minute too long.
Silence. No chatter of voices, no clamour
of life in this green. A two-person fair.
While washing dishes I fixate on the clothesline,
swaying visibly now that it has things to sway.
Ten blinking lights like a line of owls,
Keeping us company in the dark.
They twist around the washing line we never used, trembling
in the Galway breeze. I’d have liked a volley of lights;
enveloping the apple tree, criss-crossing the shed,
a single spark on every petal that falls.
It would add dimension, highlight
where ours ends, and beyond begins.
But this will do, for now.
Burnt sugar lingers in the air,
a little offshoot of scent wending through the open window
from where I left the biscuits in the oven
a minute too long.
Silence. No chatter of voices, no clamour
of life in this green. A two-person fair.
While washing dishes I fixate on the clothesline,
swaying visibly now that it has things to sway.
Ten blinking lights like a line of owls,
Keeping us company in the dark.
Laoise Ní Raghallaigh is an Irish writer, with an interest in long-form fiction and essays. Her work has previously been published in school magazines and local commemorative journals. She is currently studying Creative Writing at NUI Galway.