The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Felicity Sheehy


I like leaving places,
like hearing the final click
of a door in a socket,
or letting the shine
of a window
fill with new color,
untouched by a sudden hand,
or a shadow against the glass,
just the room breathing
in its secret places
some undefeated dust.

Whoever comes next
will fill the room
with her bustle
of suitcases and shoes
will wonder about the tulips,
(blooming now
in a crystal vase)
and step through
the coolness
there, in the small space
between carpets.

When she goes
to the window,
and rests her hand
on the sill,
she will notice, perhaps,
across the cows
and the gorse
at the line of the horizon,
a small smudge:
the cloud-fall
of another island's rain.

Three Days Alone

Only then will the house present itself:
the morning shine of the teapot
next to the cheeky turn of the milk bowl;
the radiator will speak in pops and whistles,
while the toaster finishes a rush job
and the washing machine mulls things over
with you, in your slippers and robe,
smelling of coffee.

Only then will you gather your papers
and sit by the window, where the ferry winks
in and out and the trucks renew their promises
of fresh bread and haggis—
only then will you fiddle with pencils
or twist your hair, mark down your life
with rings of tea cups, writing the poem
"Three Days Alone."

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