This is not how I’d planned it,
sitting alone, late afternoon,
nodding at thoughts, 


the piano waiting, sunbeams
on walls, the comfort of blue,

starlings ruminate, 

build on my roof.


Violets, tender with light, 
covers the window pane, 
sunlight pours over walls, 

while photographs hold still

moments captured, the mirror                                                                                        blotched in sapphire 

shadow, clouds ghosts.


I have time never imagined,
no more youth, it has passed,
held now in the pause between
tick, and tock.


I hear crows –
it will rain.

On the street there is noise
cars scramble, voices 
rush to be heard, pass 
into distance.


Powder blue sky 
steals over the rug, the mauve vase, 

a rose lifts life to this hearth, 
its beauty lulls thorns,
scent steals stale from the air.


No this is not what I’d planned.
My shawl thrown over an ancient chair,
warmth without fire, the squares of my home,
the lines, and circles hold me to the world.


But there are cats crying somewhere
in hidden alleys.

By Attracta Fahy.



I walk

to my parish,

over the five fairy forts,

climb church stiles

that once led believers to Mass.

Four paths, through fields

to the 17th century church,

hidden amongst overgrowth,

bramble, briar, whitethorn, and clump.

Only faint outlines of stone, hidden in ruin:

time’s watermark.


Speaking in silence, walls tell

our history, famine, eviction,

emigration. TB.

This parochial fold lived dutifully

despite hard times. Entombed

in sacred grass, they will us to learn

their lost history, complete the work,

theirs and ours.


I imagine turf fires, safety from the cold

of fear and pillage,

recall stories

of survival and defence.

I walk through what was once barren,

now fertile fields,

call, invoke the names: Chapel field,

Back field, Race field.


Then on, to the road my forefathers

trod to the old school –

the only heat, sods carried each day.

Past the red pump,

once important, decorative now.

I see the clods and marks of cottages

that once housed people I knew.

They have left, the storytellers, all dead.

I call out again to the people

I knew: Raferty, Flanagan

O’Keefe, Hussey, Whynne, Melody…


By Attracta Fahy.


“It’s lonely here,” I said,

to my son, my ears

holding his voice, travelling

thousands of miles through ether.

My eyes gaze

from the window, moon floats

on night sky, stars watch.

“I miss you,

maybe I could visit.”


Mum, you cannot follow

 your children around the world

looking for meaning, Go by yourself,

or stay at home and write a poem.”

Through the lump

in my throat I muttered, “True.”

By Attracta Fahy.

Glenlo Abbey Moon Photo

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