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Ireland's premier fiction and poetry magazine since 2002
Fiction and poetry
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:
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.