Poetry by Kate McNamara

TO EAMON
>
Be not unquiet
my wise dead son,
I’ll write your name again
in cobwebs.
You, who are so
implacably dead.
>
With what thin words
left to me, I’ll craft
another epitaph, veins
aching, clawing
at the ravaged, empty past.
>
And it is no long
journey, no memory
but a maze, hazardous.
It is the travel
of a colourless season.
>
But your life, so stormy,
gleams and leaps somewhere
beyond me, as if
a bright fish dreamt it.
>
So I’ll hunt the shoreline,
as some eagles would
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