Poems by Brendan Martin

Soft

Soft, I said,

declaring that my support was weak

when tears of time

and memories

flowed freely on her cheek.

Soft, I said,

announcing the arrival of the day

when night absconded

and stole

her laboured breath away.

Soft, I said,

when asked how my heart had felt.

Once a stone

but now alone,

I only feel it melt.

Already

It is already yesterday

as I listen to you breathing;

silent in your dreamscape

quietly fabricating rest,

secure in your peace

lying still in slumber,

waiting for the morning

when again you’ll be a guest;

for today is in the now; not then;

and we are here existing, being,

rivals of the underworld,

like ghosts we are not seeing.

this is all yesterday’s dream

upheld and still ongoing;

yet where today will lead,

tomorrow, has no way of knowing.

Okay Then

‘Is the tide in yet?’,

he mumbled from his chair,

the wheels locked into position

to prevent any rolling motions.

‘Yes,’ came her reply,

slapping pastry on the worktop

already covered in flour,

now to be rolled flat

with the thoughts of the day

wielded in the rolling pin.

‘I’m off so,’ he said to no one,

as his chair sat quietly;

‘seaweed won’t gather itself.’

‘Okay then,’ she hastily replied,

as she closed the oven door,

wiped her hands on her apron,

stood beside him, both now looking

out the window towards the sea.

‘I’d love a bit of apple tart,’ he said.

She kissed him lightly and smiled.

Brendan Martin is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am and Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. Mullingar. Aspiring and fun writers welcome.