Tuesday Shannon – Three Poems

On Belper Bridge

At the plunge three blackened alder snags
reach for this final January morning.

Unwavering against the crushing flow, water
froths at each darkened trunk.

A magpie circles, swoops,
settles on a branch.

It is four weeks since you died.
The current persists.

Leaving Brighton
Insert Dedication Here

Sunset tinges the sea fog blood orange.
We drive the full length of the promenade then
uphill – uphill – uphill –
meeting the motorway as night settles.

In the inconsistent light of other people’s headlamps
I study the line of your profile –
furrowed brow, pout pensive,
as we talk about the things we’ve shared,

the things we haven’t – grief, love, loss, relief.
Our silences infrequent but familiar,
when I can’t find the words:
You don’t have to tell me. I know.

An Loch Seunta, Dún Omhain

For Paris

We are women now. Combing
the shoreline, sifting through bladderwrack
and barnacled shingle, searching
for seashells.

We fill hands and pockets with bone-white
scallop halves, occupants long evicted;
find one intact, marvel at the imperfect symmetry
of damage and wear each side of the hinge.

Tuesday Shannon