The house for once stilled,
silence breaks like luck
of some kind. The light is on my back
and I am looking at the slow
mottling on my hand, each stipple
a story that happened behind my knowing.
My eyes, tired in search
of a new sight, are following
an old pattern. Somewhere, a machine
is winding down.
Only music
is fresh, so fresh it pricks like a conscience.
Ted Mc Carthy (Ireland)
Author of November Wedding and Other Poems and Beverly Downs
An independent poetry journal. Watch your step.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Now that Uneven Floor has retired from active publication, no new comments are possible — sorry. You're welcome to share the poem on social media and comment there.
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.