Jacqui Thewless Poems
Love’s loss is
There will be no recovery
of the thing that is lost –
whatever shall I call it? –
something prime, key, critical,
In feeling this
I’m not alone.
Millions of people every moment every day -
old wo/men, children, teens, our mothers, fathers, friends -
have this invisible
enclosure ripped away.
only has short use, now. We should expect it
to flick out,
the instantaneous blast
to rip our homes apart, the after-shock
to break our hearts,
the loss of what makes him, him,
or you, you ...
Every year in winter I forget what spring is like. Here in Pembroke, and throughout the county, the first harbinger is a white froth of Blackthorn blossom – before the first greening of trees. Yet white is cool; a chaste colour. Later, when the first young green leaves in the hedgerows peep, a sense of warmth to come is quickened and our spirits lift.
At home, I feed the garden birds until the end of March. It is a rare treat to catch a glimpse of the wren.
buoyant winter bird
hidden in t