CHESTER WALLS, a poem by Maureen Weldon




Warm evening

tranquil greens (freshly mown)

beneath King Charles Tower.


Midges dance through a bangle of sun

now dipping gold on distant Welsh hills.

Beneath me pink blossom and new-leafed trees.


I stand on the old Roman Walls

alone and not alone

sucked in a bliss of ages past.


As the last birds sing in the twilight air,

the Evening Star winks her knowing eye.


Maureen Weldon 


Copyright © Maureen Weldon 2002

[Included in the author’s pamphlet EARTH TIDES, Poetry Monthly Press, 2002.  Most recently published in Reflections, Issue 94.]


Poems for National Poetry Day 2014


Today is National Poetry Day 2014 and the theme for this year is REMEMBER.

Below are contributions from myself and Maureen Weldon.

In the following poem I remember a certain someone from long, long ago. I wrote ‘Rainy Dates’ wandering Talacre beach in North Wales and inscribed the first stanza in the sand with a razor shell as a pair of cormorants headed west beyond the lighthouse, low over waves burnished gold in the sunset…




Cats sprawl in the sun,

Kids throw snowballs in winter,

Your eyes haunt me still.


Rainy dates long ago,

Dry white and mandolin,

Steamy breath mingling.


Echoes of the anvil,

Victorian lamplight,

Hand in hand, alone.


Scents of the earth,

Spirits on the ether,

Our shadows in timeless flight.


A kiss beneath dripping boughs,

Your smile and words so simple:

“You’ve come home.”


Haiku inscribed in the sand,

Cormorants at sunset,

Dreamy blue eyes.


Paul Beech


Copyright © Paul Beech 2008

[Originally published on Airings, Autumn 2008]


Over to Maureen…


A couple of years ago I went on a workshop to this extraordinary place, a place never to be forgotten.



Yesterday was a walking day,

in a Welsh Valley – whispers

past an ice age.

‘Invited guests only,’ we were told.

Like sharing dreams

we wandered to the wetland

where teasel flowers live;

nesting boxes for sand martins;

big sandy cylinders on poles;

a sort of porch, an extension on the edge.


Yesterday was a walking day,

in the Welsh Valley.

‘Hush, hush’ World War Two:

the making of mustard gas,

bombs, and the nearly splitting of the atom.

Hush, hush bats live there now

in the high tower laboratory.


Yesterday was a walking day,

in that Welsh Valley.

It was Autumn.

Being so old, yet young,

the sun dipped and dyed

colours on the trees. Wind

made a slight rustle, round a sleeping Ash.

Yes the trees remember, remember.


Maureen Weldon


Copyright © Maureen Weldon

[First published Crannog Poetry Journal, Eire]

Until I was in my late twenties every Saint Patrick’s Day, we, my parents and close friends made for one of the beautiful strands by the wild Atlantic sea of County Cork.  This was a joyful event.



Tonight I should be dancing jigs and reels,

Proudly covering my head in shamrock;

Green, very green from head to foot;

And the deep dark porter carrying the cream.

‘Slainte. Cead Mile Failte.’


Far, far away I remember

On Saint Patrick’s day – picnics

In Ross Carbery, Ownahincha, Bantry bay.

Did the ghosts of my friends

Picnic there today?


Maureen Weldon


Copyright © Maureen Weldon

[First published New Hope International]

‘Returning’, a flash fiction story by Maureen Weldon




I walk the busy road, stop at an old wrought iron gate, it squeaks and is open.

Oh how I love these trees, this stony path.

Being early Summer bees are singing and the sweet smell of honeysuckle delights me.

I approach the house. Rose-tinted creeper hides old orange bricks. Bright fuchsias slouch on either side of a green wooden hall-door.

“Blacky, is this you? My darling little Blacky-cat. Can you really remember me?”

I hear a whistling, a sound so familiar. My Dad is approaching from the back of the house.  (Will I hide)?

From the kitchen a lovely soft contralto voice hums.

“Mary, is supper nearly ready?” “No Harry, it will take at least another half an hour.”

I am not sure whether to use the old key I have kept so safely all these last ten years?


Maureen Weldon


[First published on “Rivertrain”, Morelle Smith’s blog, Summer 2014.]

‘Languishing’, a flash fiction story by Maureen Weldon


Maureen Weldon

“Just think of it, darling; it seems like yesterday, yet it was ten years ago.”

“What was, my dear?”

“Oh, pass me a gin-and-it.  Our Wedding Day.”

“So sorry, my dear, how could I have forgotten?”

“Well, Percy – And it was Christmas Eve, and all those delightful little carol singers.”

“Details, my dear.”

“Of course.  Light me a cheroot please.”

“Would you ever forget the panic when the spice-beef almost failed to arrive from Dublin?”

“No, Percy, I haven’t forgotten, but it did arrive.”

“It was a perfect day, my dear.”

“Ah, isn’t memory a grand thing.”