Breda Rainey you would
hammock in the rainy box
chaps sodden from the nightdew.
Breda Rainey you wear
tiny leaves of the hedgerow
in your hair.
Breda Rainey you are,
though you heave a pushchair,
forever garlanded in box.
St Paul said it all
snail mail.
St Peter is not a tweeter
but St Mary is always online.
The father has no email,
no one can reach him
except through the son.
The spirit translates pages into any language
with comical results.
Through the open French doors,
between the woods and the lane,
a stave of power lines
with birds for notes.
I lift the lid on the piano
and start to play them.
"She is far from the land"
About:
Steve Moran is from Dublin but has lived in London for longer now. He is married with one grown-up son of his own. His day job is in software development. He has had a small number of stories and a couple of poems published. He also runs the Willesden Herald short story competiton. http://www.stephenmoran.net/
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