Kate Ennals is a prize-winning poet and writer and has published poems and short stories in a range of literary and on-line journals (Crannog, Skylight 47, Honest Ulsterman, The Moth, Anomaly, The International Lakeview Journal, Boyne Berries, North West Words, The Blue Nib, Dodging the Rain, The Ogham Stone, plus).In 2017, she won the Westport Arts Festival Poetry Competition. Her first collection of poetry At The Edge was published in 2015. Her second collection, Threads, was published in April 2018. She has lived in Ireland for 25 years and currently runs poetry and writing workshops in County Cavan. Kateruns At The Edge, Cavan, a literary reading evening, funded by the Cavan Arts Office. Before doing an MA in Writing at NUI Galway in 2012, Kate worked in UK local government and the Irish community sector for thirty years, supporting local groups to engage in local projects and initiatives. Her blog can be found at kateennals.com
The Westbury Horse
The white horse commands the Salisbury plain Its eye asserts the roll of the lie We go back long ways, Westbury Horse and I Galloping our youth over chalk and lime
The Number 29 Bus
Today, it trundles still through the streets of London. From Pimlico to Tottenham, by way of Seven Sisters. A red, double-decker, covered, glazed stairwell wrap-over rear saloon window automatic doors, brushed corduroy seats. I see it now in Finsbury Park Passing under the dark station bridge where the pigeons and homeless roost and shit. A far cry from the model painted In 1934 by war artist, Eric Ravilious when he travelled to Eastbourne and discovered a derelict bus sitting alone. His no. 29 angles memory and light. It’s open stairwell curves like a ferry with wooden seats. It rests faded bones on four round beer barrels. Parked next to a tumbled down shed it has a momentum that, in conjunction with my imagination sees me sitting up top, in the front seat, paper ticket in hand rolled out by the bus conductor’s clacking machine. A young girl, enthusiastic on her way to a ballroom of romance.
A Love Letter
I write this letter in my garden in the silvery light of the stars where my yellow evening primrose is my sentinel in the dark; A lush Dublin Rose has my back with her lash and whip of red tongues a white bowl of Alyssum at my feet washes the night air in waves. Dear John I post it behind the bins.
A Chat in The Pool
i I sink into dappled sunlight A blue chamber of mosaics Submerged in white noise Into silence, streaked with height depth dappled with shadows of light ii I cut a swath, face submerged My tips trace my fleshy shores shoulder glides watery contours I turn to breathe oxygen of earth Face down, I blow bubbles of breath iii After lengths, relaxing in froth a slip of a child floats along chats midst bubbles and burps Her words scatter a watery fray Her story lines are cast adrift With an airy gesture of fingers Her voice rising above the din Of shoots and jets echoing iv She submerges suddenly Down into foamy pool To reappear on a tip of a whale’s blow She’s up and away Gone in a flash A flowing, flipping fish girl.