In Rut

Eaten alive, being me
I step into the street
Where November leaves are falling.
The air is fine, the clear sky
As finely brittle; the aroma of late decay
A delicate call to loving.

Shed of worries
I tread the cobblestones with antlers
Through a trackless forest, to do my shopping.
My unhinged rut of senses’ brush
Through the glittering hush,
Of airless cold, the soothing starry infinite.



John McKeown is a former theatre critic (Irish Daily Mail, Irish Independent) with three poetry collections in print: Night Walk (Salmon Press), Sea of Leaves (Waterloo Press) and Looking Toward Inis Oirr (South Tipperary Arts). A fourth collection, ‘Ill Nature’, will be published by Mica Press in 2022.