Poems from ‘Wanderling’
Aurora
The sun was slow to rise today; leaking incremental light, through a widening crack, in a sliver of early cloudless sky.
Over time, it cast weak shadows, assimilating night and stars, with a quickness of the eye.
There, I saw it openly, inviting me to notice, how it glowed and gently gilded, gable ends and walls.
I lay awake and listened, as it crept past untidy garden hedging, encouraging all the hatchlings to sing their morning calls.
Now the world awakens to yesterday’s future; witnessing and feeling the beauty of today.
I sense it too as your eyes flicker open, and again, it makes me happy that you steal my heart away.
My Biggest Regret
Ah little robin, you trusted me for years, you patiently and slowly abandoned nervous fears; you ate from my plate, you fed from my hands, but you were curious of the rat trap – that wasn’t in my plans, and I thought I caught him, but instead I got you; how badly I felt then, well, nobody knew.
Yet I think of you often, my mistaken sad pet, and realise that nature can cause such upset.
But my biggest regret must be further ahead, as I can’t really complain about this life I have led.
Maybe one small thing, and I hope you don’t laugh,
I’d love to have seen the little sparrow, Edith Piaf, singing…
Non, rien de rien.
Non, je ne regrette rien…
The Day is Long
The day is long.
Hour rolls into hour, minute into minute, second into second, until there’s nothing in it, somewhat like my blur; my sleepy tired mind, waiting for the eyes to close and leave the day behind.
The day is long.
Drawn out forever, by feeling like another season, although being middle spring, I find no other reason.
Maybe I was up too early, or last night up too late, it’s days like these, I used to want, but now they’re not so great.
Every day is like a Sunday, dragging far too slowly;
Nothing to do with religious things, only about time, wholly; and once it gets to Monday, every other day’s the same, competing in the human race which never was a game.
The day is long for sleeping, or being wide awake; getting up was my downfall, staying up, my worst mistake.
Interlude
I felt your fingers touch my hair as I drifted off to sleep; and as I slipped without a care
I let your memory creep back to life behind my eyes, where we shared our lives before.
Time itself came in disguise, and brought you to life’s door.
Away from heaven’s homely dream, where angel harps are strung and played like ripples on a stream, like children, very young bubbling with a quest to learn everything they can, offering themselves in return for a life with Peter Pan.
Forever trapped in beauty of a life they once subdued; to take young roads to heaven, then still share their interlude.
I felt your fingers slip away, and my hair fall back in place.
While asleep, all was okay, it was good to see your face.
• Brendan Martin is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am, and on Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. Mullingar.
• Brendan is launching his new book of poetry, ‘Wanderling’, at 7.30pm, Thursday 29 May, also at the Annebrook.