A lip of light extends long and low
above the headland.
It illuminates your house on the cliff,
pearly white in a shaft of sunlight.
Windowpanes flash silver on this Solstice Eve
and I wonder how your children are,
will they be home for Christmas.
Memories of you flood my mind,
times past when we were young mothers,
your newsy letters from Letterkenny and Cork.
I kept them for two score years
in a file under my bed.
It was a terrible misunderstanding you know,
years of refusing to talk,
inability to forgive
then the shock of your death notice
in the newspaper.
I glance to the headland,
clouds drift and merge
and there is only rain
and the crashing of waves
on the rocks.