In the morning
of my memory
you bake
apple pies.
And grow very tired
and sit very still
and sit very silent
as the camera
undresses reality
leaves you
alone
sculpted sunlight
naked as a
lonely as a
photograph.
In the evening
of my memory
the touch of
your hand asks:
'Donall? '
The cradle of my arm
answers:
'Yes, Elizabeth? '
And although nothing is
said:
the fire's glow
nods & knows
the quiet secrets
we share
between us.
In the night
time of my memory
now when darkness
sees you
(again a little girl)
hear you tell
how you thought
every woman
dressed in black
on the white ribbons
of distant roads
was your Mammy
walking towards you
though she had gone
and never come back
(the grownups mentioned Heaven)
from the Spring sunlight
and the white white clothes
drying on the currant bushes
(her heart stopped its beating
your heart skipped a beat)
and the rope fell from
your hand
and the game was left
unplayed
and everyone forgot about
the white white clothes
and...they rotted on
the currant bushes.
Now in the night
time of my memory
when I long to touch
your hand
(and my heart
misses you)
and the fire smiles
upon my face
and the shadows
fall upon
the empty chair
then thought
becomes you
and you
become a memory
and your memory
becomes my prayer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem