Rusty Clippings

The old lady who lives
in the house on the seafront
stands with rusty shears
trimming her hedge of purple Hebe.
elbows bent, she clips salty air
hoping for visits from passers-by.

A sprawling house
collapsing from years of disrepair,
her world exists in a solitary room.
Loneliness seeps from
faded rose patterned wallpaper.
Curtains sag, stale with senility.
A tired burgundy carpet
threads the stairs
to a forgotten world.
Framed photographs
stare from the mantelpiece,
their faces buried in her memory.

Her eyes look to the sea,
absorbed by the soothing swish of the waves.
Her life, held in the ripples
of an ever changing tide
and the rusty shears by the hedge.






© Maire Morrissey-Cummins

Idyllic Altamont

http://audioboo.fm/boos/392624-idyllic-altamont

Old stone pillars flank the entrance
draped in ivy, brambles and weeds.
An avenue of copper beech
curves to an abandoned house,
where a peacock’s cry
resounds from purple walled gardens
at idyllic Altamont.

Weeping Aspens quiver
dappling sunlit walls.
A faded facade lies buried
under a myriad of trees,
vines meander the windows
and moss creeps the steps.

From the doorway,
a thick path spreads through lawns,
lined by pyramids of clipped box
sweeping beneath arches of Yew.
Trellised roses perfume the view
down to a lily clotted lake.

Swans with their young
forge a path through yellow lilies
dipping long necks into inky waters,
drifting warm sunshine.
Bird song fills the lake
lacing the trees with lilting melodies.

A woodland of Rhododendron,
gnarled branches of purplea and pinks
bracelet the lake,
leading down to a dank bog
swamped with giant rhubarb
and grassy reeds swishing the breeze.

A diverging path
twists to a gushing waterfall,
crashing into the river Slaney.
Dense dark Ash spiral
to a bright grassy clearing,
to intoxicating views
of the Blackstairs mountains.

A feast of surprises,
at each twist and turn
with a seat to sit and ponder.
A place of peace and beauty,
freedom to roam with nature
Oh How I long
to return to Altamont.