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Driftwood
Driftwood
Driftwood
Ebook94 pages22 minutes

Driftwood

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‘These poems travel from the familiar across borders; they are poems of dispossession, of starting over, of fragile ordinary details and depths, written with a natural elegance; they are times poignant, arresting , unsettling..... – Clare Sawtell

LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 5, 2022
ISBN9781005772475
Driftwood
Author

Mary Ellen Fean

MARY ELLEN FEAN was born in Galway and now lives in Co. Clare. Her work has been published in Cyphers, The SHOp, The Clare Champion, Revival, The Galway Review, among others, and broadcast on Clare FM radio. She was shortlisted for The Desmond O’Grady poetry prize in 2014. She has read her work widely, including at Limerick’s White House Poetry Theatre, The Forge at Gort festival, Galway Fringe Festival, and at The Dean Crowe Theatre, Athlone. She is currently working on her first collection.

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    Book preview

    Driftwood - Mary Ellen Fean

    It’s late August, the garden past its

    prime, the season spent, little birds

    flitting through the current bushes

    disturb the quietness.

    A delivery of logs has lain in the yard

    a week now, bleaching in the sun, the

    yearly task of gathering in, storing

    up for winter must begin.

    We work together, laying a solid base

    against the garden fence, the earth hard

    from a long dry spell, stacking the pale,

    dried wood tight, tidy.

    An hour or more goes by like this, the

    pile growing higher, wider, the silence

    between us growing heavier, all that is

    unsaid, the words hover over us.

    The sun lowers itself behind the old pines,

    a fox gives itself away in the undergrowth.

    The year rounding out with this last task,

    and winter is unimaginable.

    INSOMNIA

    Dawn arrives at last, it’s pale light

    streaking the sky, a jumble of birds

    assemble in the old pines, sounding

    the first notes, a book marked with

    a grocery bill, along with sleep is

    abandoned.

    The girls next door come home, high

    heels scrape the pavement, a clatter

    of voices, the door shuts,

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