Friday, March 1, 2019




The photograph is a grainy interpretation of the man he was,
Slightly older than I remember
But still all 1970’s Afro hair and dark glasses behind which
Pain back then was a largely uninhabited island.
Inside the photograph beckons the mourners to the front
Where it stands aloof and alone on the coffin lid.
The eulogy is a series of minor revelations,
The football team he supported later on in life,
The Saturdays he spent on the market square with collection box
And tambourine,
Days spent alone on a river bank fishing.
I look around and see his sons, grown men both, each face
Honestly reflecting the others grief,
Two young men surprised and undone by death’s
Close proximity.
From the pew behind a hand taps me on the shoulder,
A hushed voice tells me
How his eyes were always so bright even behind the dark
Camouflage of his glasses.
Outside in the warm spring sunshine, the photograph already
Leading the mourners graveside,
The same voice asked me how it was that I knew the deceased.
They were close once, another voice replied.
Yes we were close once, or so I’m told.


It is the wind

Always the wind
Here in this remote and desolate spot
Where curlews dip their wings and cry.

Bull whip of slavery
Flayed tip of sapling birch
Cruel and archaic

It flies black clouds like a flag
Of dark intent
Howling like a wounded beast alone
On the moor

Rampages with malice a fore thought
Over blunt stump of ash
And through withered limbs of rowan
The bronchial heave of oak

Writhing in an agony of biblical proportions.
Old testament febrile an eye for an eye.
It is the wind, always the wind.


A solitary bench rooted in memory
On a lonely stretch of mountain common.
Green with a newly laid wreath
And yellow with tulips
Carnations pricked and bleeding red blood
Of frosted petals

The colours merging like plumage of mallard
Forming an oily slick on the water.
A card preserved in cellophane depicts a
Jack Russell terrier
Were you a champion of that breed or were you
A casual admirer of it’s tenacious beauty?

Did you walk this mountain lake
One such dog at your heels
His ears flapping his eyes watering his breath
Splintered by the restless wind.
Did you stand on that shingle spit of shore
Looking out over the water

Recalling the past contemplating the future,
And did you ever imagine
That you might serve your sentence in so lonely
And wild a place,
A bench planted in tribute to the person
You once were.

A bench on which your spirit could sit and while
Away the hours of eternity,
Enduring the noise of fractious gulls, the gathering
Of wings on the water at dusk,
A ghost dog at your feet clinging tenaciously
To the good times you shared together.


DENNIS MORIARTY was born in London but now lives in Wales, UK. Married with five grown up children, Dennis likes to walk in the hills, read and write poetry. In 2016 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to the Blackwater international poetry festival to read his work. Dennis has had his work published previously in journals such as Setu Bilingual, Blue Nib, The Passage between and Mad Swirl.

1 comment :

  1. Innovadora forma de escribir con metáforas bien elaboradas Lo felicito poeta