He Tells Her

She lives her life

in boxes,

or signed

on the bottom line.

The in-laws,

the rotten husband,

and jam making.

And the child –

that joy – the child.

Then grandmother,

rather wild, chilled out,

good at making pastry.

And friends, they are the ones,

do not forget;

they will remind you of

what you have forgotten.

So, maybe tomorrow

is the day to stand

by the edge of the water

as the tide turns;

where the past sucks secrets

through a shell.


If Cares Were Stones

I would drop them under a waterfall

to pound and twist.

Ride a horse to the peak of a hill –

until black clouds burst ferocious rain,

stones rolling, down, down, down.

I would drag them across a seaweed beach

pods popping between my toes –

tip them into the sea.

Yet I would keep just one:

the moonstone on a silver chain;

your name, on my tongue.



How rich it is,

this ocean,                          

this sort of ground-down dust

like lapis lazuli   

in bright sunlight.    

One does not

have to change its dress,   

it is always here, growing daily;  

every book, newspaper,

symphony, flower,

while sense and sensibility

sing a lullaby – soothingly

or spring to life

in a twisted dream.

It tells tales                   

when sipping wine;

the clinking of glasses

the laugh, the tear.

It is every year

like the long road,

or the moon

caught in the shadows

of a banyan tree.

Maureen Weldon is Irish and lives in North Wales. She is a former professional ballet dancer. Her poems have been published in both print and online magazines and journals including Poetry ScotlandCrannogDreyPoetry CornwallFirePurple PatchPoetry MonthlyReflectionsOn-Line, Ink Sweat and Tears and Snakeskin. In 2011 twenty-five of her poems were published byThe Sons of Camus International Journal, winning her an award. She has published five chapbooks, and enjoys giving readings – especially with live music.  

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