ASHES TO ASHES
I hurry to the ash-pit to lay them but -
The ashes fly back in my face.
My eyes rest on laurels – that
Wave their leaves – snow falls
In its finest form – holding
back spring; the in between
Season of words; even the birds
Sing on through the cold March.
Thoughts flit and feet
Shift with care-worn tread…
Through gaps which left -
Our love in cinders.
This was written on a cold day; when i was out emptying the ashes from my mother's stove; where she lives amongst the little hills of Monaghan, in a place called Castleblayney.
Sing on through the cold March.
Thoughts flit and feet
Shift with care-worn tread…
Through gaps which left -
Our love in cinders.
This was written on a cold day; when i was out emptying the ashes from my mother's stove; where she lives amongst the little hills of Monaghan, in a place called Castleblayney.
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