Poem by Maureen Weldon

I have left the past,
or so I thought;
yet it sits in every corner,
sits on my back.

Sometimes the long garden with a hammock
to swing in, to laze in,
near the sweet peas, near the roses.

Sometimes a white breeze
salty from the ocean.

It is Ireland, England, Scotland, Wales.

It is war-time, it is peace-time.

It is a wedding vow torn by the wind.

It is sitting around a table, laughing.

It is the dearest dead.

It is christening the baby.

It is like a cave,
or a pass through the mountain.

And always the still small voice.


Maureen Weldon


[ First published by The Passionate Transitory.

Also to be included in my forthcoming pamphlet MIDNIGHT ROBIN
to be published by Poetry Space Ltd. Editor, Sue Sims ]


2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Paul Beech
    Jun 16, 2014 @ 05:55:38

    Maureen, what a cracking poem – I love it!



  2. Maureen Weldon
    Jun 17, 2014 @ 22:47:53

    Thank you Paul.


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