Did the pattern of novenas, feast days,
fast days, confessions, communion,
you clung to like a rope, offer balm
for the life you did not live?
Sometimes I see your rosary beads
(which I still have)
wound through reddened fingers,
over the wedding ring that would not budge.
In broken dreams, we walk pot-holed laneways,
nights still as a prayer. We seek a star to steer us
as we stumble over splintered stones,
stuttered words.
Some nights as I lie awake,
the Litany tingles through my tired body,
mother of pearl,
mother of divine grace,
mother most pure,
mother of sorrow pray for us.
Helen Fallon has worked as a librarian in Ireland and Sierra Leone.
She has published in journals and anthologies including Poetry Ireland Review, Skylight 47, A New Ulster, The Ogham Stone, Ropes Literary Journal, The Stony Thursday Book, The High Window, Live Encounters and Washing Windows III, IV and V.
More work by Helen Fallon
Tel: 028 7126 6946
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