3 Poems by Rona Fitzgerald


I would say, people, kin, friends from all my ages,

who know me all my life, who share memories,

 joys and sorrows.

It’s not seeing the next generation blossom –

I remember holding them close as babies

snugged in my neck, asleep, safe.

Or seeing them walk for the first time –

the unfettered joy of movement, speed.

Not forgetting the teenage years of awkward

times, learning to be an adult, confused

imagining no-one understands or shares

the muddle and unease of growing up.

I would love to share their cares, their laughter

and their losses – to support them now

in this time of constraint and fear. 

If you asked me what I miss the most

It’s Howth head, the cliff walk in all seasons –

broom or heather or pared down grass.

The sea mirroring my step, showy or steady.

And the shades; sun shimmer on a bright day 

moon glow at dusk – indigo water with pinprick stars.

Or sepulchre grey on a day of storms.

The breath-taking moment on Howth head

as you turn downwards to the shore, light in all seasons. 

Remember New Year’s Day 2017 –

waves washing us in hope of return –

unreachable in the end, though I yearned

for the familiar, for places stored in my heart.

If you asked what I miss the most, it’s belonging.


I know that words matter, being able to express

our feelings, our grief, to capture a cloud

or the whoosh of a weeping willow –

the sunburst yellow of a buttercup.

I know that touch matters, that many are dying

without the caress of a loved one, that we can’t comfort

friends and family with a warm embrace, wrapping

our love around their sorrow.

I know that many have stayed at home, in pain

in grief, in anguished uncertainty, because of love.

That folk have almost starved by keeping the rules –

that they miss seeing and hugging another person.

I know that poor leadership costs lives

that many people are doing their very best –

enduring beyond reason. And I know that doubt

and distrust are more corrosive than poison.



The weather has been kind, warmth, light –

our daily walk yields bounty – blue periwinkle

virtuoso birdsong, heralding joy. Shrubs alive.

Nature’s mood music is positive, open. 

The weather is unkind, lighting up the near hills

inviting us to sit out in cafés and wine bars

when we cannot. We are contained, constrained 

out of sorts, unsure of what lies ahead.

I feel exposed, in an unfamiliar way, 

despite my gloves and the protective veil

of my cheery yellow scarf. My mood tones

are autumn, tipping into winter. 


And the questions we avoid, hold back. 

What if, how will we manage – I worry you don’t know 

where everything is. I remind you of my songs

and my cygnet dance as the final curtain crosses.

We laugh, today is saved, we walk with ease.

Later, I say that planning is a good thing –

the virus has tripped us all, taken us by stealth.

But whenever we go, let it be like this; 

Holding hands, sea rhythms, cello chords. 

You can drift – I will hold you safe – 

as the tide retreats, the sun goes down

and the moon recedes to the last quarter.

About the contributor

Rona Fitzgerald’s poems are published in UK, Scottish, Irish, and US publications. Some recent highlights include Aiblins: New Scottish Political Poetry 2016, Oxford Poetry XVI.iii Winter 2016-17, Poems for Grenfell, Onslaught Press 2018, #Me Too, Fair Acre Press, 2018, The Blue Nib issue 39 September 2019, Ramingo’s Porch 2020.

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