Saturday, 22 December 2012

December, 2012

I was writing a poem
for the end of the world,
seeking sharp phrases,
clever turns.
That devastating final line
hadn’t yet been formed
when the world ended.

In Ballybofey and in Newtown, Connecticut,
in other places too, names unknown to me,
worlds ended for mothers, fathers,
sisters, brothers, cousins.
For the janitor, the bus driver,
the teacher.
For the granny, the aunt,
the man in the shop,
the dog at the gate,
the world with that child in it
came to an end.
Will not re-start.

My world keeps turning, stays on its axis.
After a brief pause, after the shocking news,
here I am.
A different poem.
A slightly different,
sadder world.
And on it turns,
this world –
wounded, wounded.

© Imelda Maguire

Imelda Maguire, Donegal, Ireland, is a poet and a counsellor, working with young people in schools in Northern Ireland.