I have left the past,
or so I thought;
yet it sits in every corner,
sits on my back.
Sometimes the long garden with a hammock
to swing in, to laze in,
near the sweet peas, near the roses.
Sometimes a white breeze
salty from the ocean.
It is Ireland, England, Scotland, Wales.
It is war-time, it is peace-time.
It is a wedding vow torn by the wind.
It is sitting around a table, laughing.
It is the dearest dead.
It is christening the baby.
It is like a cave,
or a pass through the mountain.
And always the still small voice.
[ First published by The Passionate Transitory.
Also to be included in my forthcoming pamphlet MIDNIGHT ROBIN
to be published by Poetry Space Ltd. Editor, Sue Sims ]