A sight so new to me
I could spend hours
watching her

(in her
denims and converse,
walking the way she
does)

Those eyes,

(like seeing sunlit sky
through a looking glass)

could make me weep for want

(of one more touch)

of her.

I watched the sea lift her skirts,
flirting with all who came to see,
the beauty beneath finally revealed,
breathtaking in its chemistry.

I have said little of importance in days now.
It has become apparent that without her voice,
I have none. It has vacated me, left me void, so
that all I am are the reflections of what other people
see. These fragments form a looking glass that depicts
me as I am, a broken body, a fractured soul.

The cracks in the wall of the heart,
expose the human flesh beneath.
Each piece, weighed and measured,
gives a fractured image of a tested love.

The Story*

She told me the story over some Earl Grey
and Jaffa cakes. The tea and cakes were nothing
special, but on that day the air seemed a little heavy
and she sighed often, before finally taking a sip.

So began the story of a summer from her teens,
of sun, sand and uncensored first love, played out to
the sounds of Joan Baez and disapproving families,
before its tragic and sudden end.

I listened, surprised by my own emotion, and when
I left that day, the tea and cakes remained tragically
untouched on the table and I understood-
after 30 years, I had finally met my mother.



*Inspired by another's story and the potential damage
of long held family secrets.

Reflecting within myself-
I get lost in a

feeling of longing that 

is undoubtedly tinged

with the open wound of

my own unwavering guilt.

Like shadow puppets, the

arresting images play
upon my mind and fill
my heart with a wantful ache.

The puppets still, but
guilt and want make
only prisoners of
the mind-
I am a prisoner.

   

Now she merely mumbles, but what of the
past nights' scenes of domestic violation.
She battered her shores with such force
that the sailless boats tolled their bells
in anticipation of a death.
As these words hit the page, she raises
a gentle roar, a reminder of her strength,
but also her control.
I watch her warily, not just because of
her power, but her beauty.

I left Ireland a few years back,
disillusioned by her new found greed.
Like a lost lover, I searched for another bed,
although none are as alluring as hers.

My dear, sweet Ireland, you were a tragedy
waiting to happen...to someone else.

A year has gone by so fast and yet
I've been breathing at a snail's pace
In August you said I touched your soul
Now, you don't even talk back.
So my words are for myself, as
they reflect I hear them loud,
but when you finally read them
they'll sound hollow-glad I can't
see the look in your eyes.

I cannot know your mind in these matters,
only the cold egde to your words that
I do not believe is your voice, but
that of a strangled heart hurled
from a happy place to the very depths
of this kind of hell.
I thought it my place to rescue you,
but we found ourselves entwined in
a brambled love and embittered by
our want we fell further adrift until
we reached a crevice from which
to hang or hang ourselves.