Thursday, February 11, 2010
Loss by McBreen, Joan
Loss is a handkerchief on blackthorn touched with frost,
the imprint of your feet on sands you have crossed.
Loss is many stations where you waved in the rain,
the spring and summer you will not see again.
Loss is the mother calling the boy who does not reply,
is forked lightning in a summer sky.
Loss is the last page of each book loved,
is in the bedroom curtains that have not moved.
Loss is the black gabardine never returned,
it has no colour – that too is learned.
Loss is a silence you cannot forget,
is tobacco smoke recalled in the lilac garden where we met.
Copyright © Joan McBreen 2009