a scent of roses, laughter, darkness
Mentioned my discovery of Maura Dooley's poetry the other day ...
... well, I now have a further collection of hers (2016, as pictured) and am very glad I tracked it down - I sense more poems from within may well be blipped soon ;-)
For now - here's the closing-poem from this volume:
In ictu occuli
Up, up through the house
as if childhood itself had fallen
long ago down the old stairwell
and back came not treacle
nor the echo of splash,
but the murmur of lives lived,
a shuffle of bags, shoes and coats,
the shudder and slap of mail on mat,
the smell of toast, a distant voice asking
is the fire lit yet?
and the door opening and closing
and opening onto icy flags, shouting,
a scent of roses, laughter, darkness.
Maura Dooley (1957 - )