They feel he is slipping, each phone call starts
with the clearing of a ditch thick with brambles.
I must wield a slasher, before the conversation can begin.
The past months of barricading, of calendar day sameness
the lack of prospect of a trip, a hotel meal, a Spiritual celebration
even a blood test, nothing to wear a tie for,
life in the living room, listening for the numbers.
On coming out he bears the daze of one on release from a hospital ward
whitewashed, stunned by sunlight, the pitch of his voice
much louder than required, trialling the measure of his steps
he thrills at the meeting of a new acquaintance, vigorously
shakes his hand.
|Bio & Link|
|Siobhan Twomey is an acupuncturist and reflexologist from Lismore in Co Waterford. She has been published in Poetry Bus magazine.|