Anne comes from Northern Ireland. She’s read at literary events in Dublin, Belfast, Bangor, Derry and across Northern Ireland. A professional member of the Irish Writers Centre, Dublin, Anne runs creative writing classes across NI and is writer in residence for a forest. Her poetry has been published in the USA, Canada, UK and Ireland.
Sometimes the day casually raked its claws down her and they could not understand that she would withdraw to silence and to peace waiting for the wounds to heal.
I will put you carefully away like any precious, once-loved thing. Wrapped completely in a box seeming too small to contain so very much. I will grasp you, then - the tiniest shard of you - held so warm and close tight in the palm of my hand. A tiny piercing; a moment of beautiful pain. And if those fingers curled so close around that last precious fragment of you were to open slowly - one finger at a time - the stigmata would still weep.
And then the fire the light the heat of you molten on my mouth searing on my skin. Your gaze – a flame your touch – a forest fire. It was only when I burned with pain that I understood too late I did not know how to put you out.
They have given up; their house is marked for sale. I drive past this sign each morning – watch it slip and list into an unkempt hedge. Slowly – in a sad reflection of what they cannot save – it loses its balance. Leans languidly in towards its tipping point. Slips beyond. And falls.
When it is dark enough, you can see the stars. (Ralph Waldo Emerson.) It was the possibility of darkness that made the day seem so bright. (Stephen King.)
You, my song of Innocence, You, my tale of Experience; You, first my dawn and then my darkest night. You, who gave me such luminous vision; How could I know you were simply reflected light?