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
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,
One in spirit and in soul.