Poetic Interlude – Scarred Solstice

I am no Paddy Kavanagh
although his seat of honour
Sits within a stroll
Of my pencil and
Raglan winds loosely by
my route to waking.

Yet today I’m reminded of the
Stable-lamp and the mother
Milking: a world away from mine
Yet near in innocence to me
And my wonder at the walls
Reflected in water under
The blackness punched with
Pins or guns or shrapnel
From hearts slaughtered in
daylight by words. This season,

This winter, this day is alone
In its pewter hope for gold
To be unearthed like a button
By a child, or a buckle from the
Belt of a box-pleated coat, lost
And then glinting in the soil
Like a gem of a memory kept
To stroke in coat pockets
like the apple of her rose cheek
In the clasp of lifeless fingers.

Dotty 💋

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