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donall-dempseyPoems
THE GATE SWINGS OPEN ( for Mary Frances ) We hang from (albeit upside down) now interlaced between now balanced upon the five-bar-gate the river beyond calling our names. This is the threshold between lane and field. We live only in the moment and so forever. Your dress falling over your face stifling giggles gales of laughter shaking us from our perch like windfall apples. An "Ouch!" and an "Ow!" later and we are back upon where we had fallen from. A Constable I could imagine would have painted us thus in passing. Our five-bar-gate as much a part of us. Even in this over-grown now I still smart from the sting of its nettles still taste the tang of its baby strawberries at its gnarled wooden feet. The gate open into a world that is ...gone. Captured in my imagination by a Constable blur of paint showing two blurs that could be considered us children at play. It hangs in my mind in the gallery of memory. The light slowly dying only the laughter remains. The thrush's song threaded through the morning.
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Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
THE GATE SWINGS OPEN ( for Mary Frances )
THE GATE SWINGS OPEN ( for Mary Frances ) We hang from (albeit upside down) now interlaced between now balanced upon the five-bar-gate the river beyond calling our names. This is the threshold between lane and field. We live only in the moment and so forever. Your dress falling over your face stifling giggles gales of laughter shaking us from our perch like windfall apples. An "Ouch!" and an "Ow!" later and we are back upon where we had fallen from. A Constable I could imagine would have painted us thus in passing. Our five-bar-gate as much a part of us. Even in this over-grown now I still smart from the sting of its nettles still taste the tang of its baby strawberries at its gnarled wooden feet. The gate open into a world that is ...gone. Captured in my imagination by a Constable blur of paint showing two blurs that could be considered us children at play. It hangs in my mind in the gallery of memory. The light slowly dying only the laughter remains. The thrush's song threaded through the morning.
donall-dempsey
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donall-dempsey
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
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