Francie Lynch Poems

She is the shadow of her own shadow;
A hard green tomato on an October vine;
Like last year's silver tree tinsel;
The inescapable smell of a house housing cats;
...

In this box are Aine's rings,
Silver chains and secret things;
But lift the lid,
Set in the mirror,
...

To me, this sounded so final and trite,
But his wife, she said, left him,
Cause she couldn't be a wife.
...

I saw a satyr in the woods,
A centaur in the meadow;
Travelling on, I remarked on a fawn
Hallowing out reeds for a pipe.
...

I'll book freighter passage, back,
Across the Atlantic,
To the siren Island.
...

"I know an agent, who knows your man, who has a machine to do the job in no time."

… I'll book a flight then...
...

The news was expected,
But she died today;
She's the last of our parents,
Our children will cry,
...