They keep to themselves,
no soft breath on our necks,
no shadowy form by a window.
Sometimes they hide in our dreams
like a face deep in a foggy mirror
or a faded watercolour.
A butterfly in the kitchen,
a robin by the back door,
grief makes us desperate.
We pluck weeds from their graves,
humped from our weighty backpacks
of 'could haves' and 'should haves',
READ SOME MORE
Holding Her Breath: A different take on the campus novel
Edward de Bono obituary: Lateral thinker who proposed Marmite as solution to Arab-Israeli conflict
The First Irish Cities: An Eighteenth-Century Transformation – A tale of 10 towns
The last of the dragomans: Andrew Ryan, a Cork man in Constaninople
while above our heads
starlight comes tumbling
through the vast indifference of eternity.
Gerard Hanberry is currently working on his fifth poetry collection. He also writes non-fiction
