Coralie

And Coralie

Sits on the sand,

Her hair is bright

And in the wind

She waits for me.

She always keeps a watch for me.

Sat on the strand

Between the sea

And hinterland

That’s where she’ll be.

Just like the sea

Her eyes are blue.

Her skin is soft

A golden hue.

My Coralie.

The sky is deep

The tide is high

And Coralie

Awaits my cry

“O Coralie!”

Green leaves contrast

Her yellow dress

Her face is wet

In emptiness

My Coralie.

For I am where

I should not be

Beyond the reef

Beneath the sea.

In deep I lie.

“O Coralie!”

I cry.

*

Soul Saver

Sometimes in danger, I admit –

my soul has fluttered close to searing fire.

The flames of evil, malice, sin,

could singe my wings

before I came home safe.

And you, with honeyed words that lip-drip,

coo, cajole,

seduce me – you catch my soul

on golden thread, nets woven

to cocoon and wrap. 

I do concede I am now safe,

Hid from harm, under your care, your guard:

My soul can never flee,

no longer free:

trapped in your jar.

*

Petals

Fly aloft
Sweet source of summer,
Carpets Cleopatra graced,
Leaflings sliding soft together

Scented meaning, slowly paced.

Falling gentle,
Passing lightly,
Reminiscence of a name
Life-enthused and bright in colour
Cumulate the broken flame.

Sunlight slivers
Culled from heaven
Moist with dew and thick with birth
Nature’s own benign confusion
Fly, fall, shine! For all you're worth!

*

Essence

I cannot tell you where the water of our river

cadges into the brine.

Nor if the fish swim deep to find

the coolth.

I know of muddy hollows under banks

where anything might hide. Still.

There in the green water.

Close to where I sit.

Loving

Through a small crack in a summer’s day,

a chill breeze flows

And down the hill and through my door

it sweeps across the cold, hard floor

and finds me.

In the cool house

I window-watch

As sunshine crackles toasting wheat

and birds repose, grown numb with heat,

and fail to sing.

You lie above. The day proceeds

with creak and groan, the rasp of breath

and only when the dusk has come

can I let air into my lung.

And when the seasons turn again

You will be gone.

*

In Smoke

In smoke

My dearest lover sings

Our life, his hopes, my fears.

He rises,

Leaving me below,

Alone and dress’d in tears.

Clasped in my hands

His last request,

The rose that I have borne

From that first inkling of distress

Until this fatal morn.

I hold it now in anger dark

Oppressed by what has been

For he is taken, borne aloft

This day in Skibbereen. 

 *

Flowers

 I grow the flowers gladly

and place them in our home,

before the winds of winter

can penetrate the stone.

They bring me joyful feeling,

My sadness lifts in light,

Though facing my dark future,

I fight the urge to flight.

I keep a solemn promise

to hold the love we found;

to live my life, a grieving wife.

As to this place I’m bound.

*

Vintage

Last year’s vintage –

fruit and sun in spring and summer –  

sours in autumn,

sates the palate,

undistinguished.

Surfeit flows in hazy days

and slumbrous nights.

The senses dulled,

no will to strive,

no mind to care.

A glass that once held mother’s milk

– ah! Those soft days

of warmth:  belonging

growing, changing, living –

now holds the wisdom of my years:

Sour and aging,

last year’s vintage.

All that’s left…

a deep-red glass

of bitter bile.