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Fiction and poetry




The Watcher

Wendy Mooney

Ill-prepared for winter, there is a howl in me.

The kind of howl heard on a frosty night when

foxes with coats the colour of fallen leaves

roam the streets:

for the light fading rapidly on the horizon;

the curtained windows; the terrible endlessness

of the sky.

And behind it lies a door I did not open but yet

came through: ghost of former self crossed over –

all walled in now between the walls of silence,

of god knows what keeps me here,

in this dark space where I’m letting it all tick away:

this time, it’s too much.

And yet something sees again in me as

I mend the rent in that old cotton dress of mine

and in the tasselled pillow – the one on which

I perched in summer. The position

I found myself in:

cross-legged, breathing deeply, and sense of

light flowing in at navel, and being raised up,

essentially, to unimaginable coloured fields –

blue and yellow – and all the impossible

that could ever be: dandelion clocks blurring out

a view of  lakeside houses; drone of bees.

A howl, but the residue of colour.

And all the impossible that could ever be.

Something sees in me: how much

further if what sees in me keeps watching?

Where is my horizon?

Wendy Mooney’s work has previously been published in Poetry Ireland Review, Cyphers, Crannóg, Windows Publications: Authors & Artists, New Irish Writing and several other journals.