Talking 1



Talking with my mother in an empty house


pale and delicate
much too frail to survive

an early butterfly
blows against your rose bush
and is caught on a thorn

the white of its shredded wing
a sudden shriek
bleeding snow over the garden

did you write those words to disguise my voice?
am i the butterfly?
 does your writing echo my cry?

thoughts pound through my head
like waves on the shoreline
each spoken word
a grinding of tiny pebbles


16 thoughts on “Talking 1

    • Thank you, Allan. It’s an old poem (1988), written just after my mother passed away. My father was in hospital and I flew home to an empty house that was filled with spirits that whispered to me. This sequence of poems is the result. The italics represent my mother’s voice.

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