Learning to Be. A poem by Lila Stuart

Last night we saw Ho Chi Minh City
with Michael Portillo.
On a different channel we visited
The Valley of the Kings and
Tutankhamen’s Tomb.
Behind the garage we shifted
bikes saved for Madagascar,
hiding reddening Deora Dé
in search of freedom.

Yesterday we missed the man
from two doors down,
mowing our front lawn.
We waved our thanks
over the hedges to him.
Ignoring Google,
we ferreted out words
from the heavy red dictionary,
chasing the tails of derivations,
forgetting the original quest.

This morning we saw
stain-glass windows in
Loughrea Cathedral.
You knew the place from
counties rote learned
in Master Wallace’s class.

This afternoon we found buds,
en route to leaves
on the damson tree;
heard the black birds warning
as we neared their nesting place.
We left no carbon footprint,
only the soft tread of footsteps
on a mown lawn
and sighs of satisfaction
going along memory lanes.


Lila Stuart lives in Belfast & has her poetry published.

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