Poetry Day 6 – Screen


We placed the lilac stock,
the clove scent of late Spring,
by the headstone.
Weeded your bed
as I explained family to
my daughter.

Three holes gouged where heather
once bloomed.
Discarded, dried out,
on the empty plot beside.
Keepsakes stolen one visit – and binned.
Those who leave anything in celebration
of a mother’s love will be defiled –
over and over and over.
Adult children of abuse
keep the cycle spinning.

And I’m not angry I tell her.
My Mom, your Granny, is close
in other spaces.
Down Connemara boreens –
in the sound of the fox and cuckoo
at early dusk.
In the rose buds blooming yellow
in late May.
Our spirits connect – Everywhere.
Easily felt.
Easily seen.


About lineatatime

Dublin born and raised, Mari returned to Ireland with her husband and daughter in 2008, after living in the USA since the early ’80s. A former journalist, ombudsman and newsroom administrator she now lives in Mayo. Following the death of her mother by elder abuse in 2010, she often writes about the failures of Irish systems in protecting her mother and also herself as a victim of crimes in her mother’s estate. She writes frequently about oppression, elder abuse and domestic violence– in the forms of poetry, fiction and non fiction in the hopes it will help shine the light on Ireland’s shame.
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