Poetry by Kate McNamara

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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