Niall M Oliver lives in Ireland with his wife and three sons. He is the author of ‘My Boss’ by Hedgehog Poetry. His poems have appeared in various magazines and journals such as Acumen, Atrium, The Honest Ulsterman, Fly On The Wall Press, Ink Sweat & Tears, and others.

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Granite

The last I’d heard before boarding at JFK
was that you were waiting for me,
and when I arrived in Dublin at day break
my brother told me you didn’t make it
through the night. I don’t recall much after that,
like who cried and who didn’t, and did I?
If not for the gold leaf lettering
on your gravestone; the date of your dying,
I swear I would have forgotten that too.

People tell me how well you looked, lying
in your coffin, just like herself, they say.
Did it rain as we carried you to the church?
But I did carry you, an undeniable fact,
though my body bears no memory of your weight.
Yet two months earlier, the swing and clang
of your garden gate still rings fresh in my mind
when I called to say goodbye, a short stay,
a big boy in a rush, eager to get away.

I drank half a cup of tea as you cleared ashes
from the hearth. Every visible speck swept,
the soft scraping of shovel on stone
and before a match was struck I was gone.
I wish I’d held you longer, or told you
something to remember, as you stood
at your doorstep watching me walk away.

First published in Acumen.

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My Brother and I Were Never Closer

Than the Christmas morning beneath the tree,
shoulder to shoulder unwrapping pairs
of red boxing gloves left by a naive Santa.
After one brutal round we remained in our corners.

We lived in different worlds in the same house.
His had blinds drawn and smelled of nicotine.
He played its anthem in heavy metal.
Earrings and Doc Martins were mandatory.

In my territory, walls were made from mirrors.
Intruders were warned off by badly sung ballads
and clinking of dumbbells. Sports trophies doubled
as cudgels. Parents would patrol the hallway in riot gear.

Nowadays we are softer in the middle, wives and kids
carry olive branches. We check in every so often,
a quick hi and how’s tricks? Last time around
we agreed Coldplay aren’t bad.

Knowing we are as close as we’ll ever be,
we’ve found contentment in this new place,
inhabiting a space we never could—
just a screen-swipe away, in each other’s pockets.

First published in The Honest Ulsterman

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Hourglass

The sight of the tall firs, like guards at the gateway,
cue our children to shout, We’re here already!
The drone of car wheels soften where the tarry
road lightens, blending seamlessly into the sandy
seven-mile stretch; a lopsided smile, arching all the way
east to Downhill beach. Sea and sky wear matching grey,
each, randomly specked with white foam and stray
gulls, freezing like kites in the headwind. Hurry, hurry,
come calls from the back, as doors fly open, and away
they rush as if sucked out by a tsunami pull, willingly.
We marvel at their wildness, aware of our opportunity
to sail along on their coattails, to let the wind carry
their smiles onto our faces, knowing that eventually
the sand will shift beneath their feet too— but not today.

Exclusive to East Ridge Review

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Reflection

In the six or seven minutes
it takes for the oats to soak
and thicken to a cream, I find
myself staring at the sweet spot,

the moment in-between, when night
hands-over to morning’s light: a robin
hopping along the garden fence,
a distant tree crowned with starlings,

pearls of water gleaming
on the surely greening grass,
and the silvery sheen of the lough,
with just a hint of mist atop,

all slowly becoming clear,
as the man in my pyjamas
looks back at me and stirs,
until he disappears.

Exclusive to East Ridge Review