Joe Lynch

Joe Lynch lives and works in Belfast, N Ireland. Joe has only recently explored submitting poetry, having one recently accepted by 30 West Publishing House. Joe’s main interest is in social orientated poems of an earthy nature that explore human nature and its frailties.

 

 

 

 

Through Leaf Torn Trees

I sensed her strolling, almost skipping, – in a melancholy way,
past the Oak strewn forest, scented in pine, where wild fern grows,
treading autumns reddened leaves, lifted by fading light,
light, that sought a breach to gleam, through leaf torn trees.

I glanced her shadow, as she crossed my grassy glen,
hesitating; she stood at my garden gate, right on time,
I studied her for a moment, pale and thinned like a splinter,
moving to greet her as she sighed, then caught her burdened breath.

With lead-like boots, she laboured her way to my kitchen table,
Tripping her body, hampered by the ream of past woes,
declining tea, though I supped mine with curious anticipation,
seeking how best she thinks I could help ease her burden.

Like a church hall stillness, her silence screaming, yet heavy fraught,
her eyes striking mine with a sorrow filled glance,
fidgeting and twiddling a pearly ring around her twiggy finger,
and as-yet, to know a word from deep in her sadness.

I sat hushed, looking not staring, then noticing my gaze she inhaled,
blurting her first word with tentative tone, “Sorry”-
then quickly, bowing her head as if whispering for forgiveness,
a vivid prologue of a one-word chapter of apologetic living,

Then, as if hearing the bugle call, words parachuted off her tongue,
trumpeting to the table, dancing, spinning, some tumbling to the floor,
like a dog chasing its tail, she pursued her fears and woes,
eyes darting in time with her lips, a cavalcade of taut emotion.

Her worries, exploding, a spontaneous eruption, unbounded;
filling the room with cinders of lost dreams, guilt and past foes,
like an eviction of an unwelcome lodger living in her head, now cast out,
and we both sat, exhausted by the toing and froing of ploughed emotion,
and I, just a friend ready to listen, offering tea and the magic of time,
now re-forged, she lightly treaded over reddened leaves, lifted.

© 2018 Joe Lynch