For Miranda

Another from my collection, “Not For Sale”  – the 2nd edn. will be at the printer in October.

 


I sit like Whistler’s Mother 
Gazing at a passing shadow show 
Recapturing flickering images. 
A magic lantern montage of memories, 
My ‘recherche du temps perdu,’

We wandered the Highlands and Islands 
In our hand painted, candle lighted,
Donkey drawn open lot bow top,
And indulging serendipity
Took the ferry across the Irish Sea.

Campfire evenings under the stars 
Me on the squeezebox. 
You playing the mandolin 
Duetting ballads, wistful songs.

Early mornings hunting eggs 
New-laid by our free-ranging hens
For cooking on our Queenie stove.

I grew dreadlocks and a beard. 
Wrote a little, performed a little. 
We survived by busking 
And the tides of strangers 
Who swapped our hand-craft trinkets,
Dream catchers and wrist bands – for drinks.

We had two children, 
Nearly three – a sad miscarry, 
And settled out of sight 
In a Kilkenny woodland cabin 
The owner bequeathed us
In perpetuity.

Old friends ‘just passing by’
Stayed whole summers 
Dancing too much in ceilidh. 
Banjaxing their livers with ‘black’ and Paddy. 
Skinny dipping in the river – 
Poor Harry lost his Rolex –
Sunbathing naked when the rain abated.

So many full-moon nights of loving together.
Ageing together. Greying together. 
In time our bodies failing together. 
So very nearly, 
Almost perfectly,

One in spirit and in soul.

© coolhermit 2020
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