4th April in Memory
Today for me is sand
blown across a windy beach.
You used to love a windy day
‘cleanyourfeet’ you’d hear them say
“Every crow thinks its own chick’s the whitest.”
The wind is from north-east
were I at home
tobacco smells would carry
snowflakes in their wake
over the flourishing corn about to bloom
and you would know tell us all the signs
too early to plant sweet peas yet
“Let the winter do its work.”
I have missed that kind of wisdom since
Winter did its work
ten years ago today.
I know my mother would have been proud of the poems I have in Issue 7 of A New Ulster -- out today! I dedicate them to her.