A search for connection and pattern underpins Moya Roddy’s second collection, the opening sequence of poems delving deep into family life, particularly the longing and grief for parents who through circumstances or temperament were often unpredictable or unavailable. Even in memory they cannot be pinned down: rather like butterflies they spread beautiful wings one moment, only to show a dark underside the next. Broadening her lens, she explores the fragile and fractured terrain of loss and change within community: neighbours gathered around a bonfire of old house timbers only to realise the significance of what they’re burning; cocaine falling like snow in remote villages. There’s gentle humour in the consternation caused when a house which has been traditionally white is painted turquoise by blow-ins or when women compete to produce the most babies for Ireland. A feeling of joy infuses poems about the natural world even as poppies rear their heads in defiance of concrete.
