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  Maureen Weldon
   
     
OF CROSSED WIRES
 
Last night
the winged tips
of a soaring bird
flew past my dreams.
 
Today the ironing board
stands stiffly.
I bow to the waiting sheets
wanting to tear them to shreds.
 
Upstairs in a bedroom
of crossed wires
an old lady
once glorious in her youth -
waits...
 
I run in all directions
taut nerves like gladiolus
broken at the stem.
 
The old lady
(very precious)
shuffles
through her arch high room -
breathing like morning mountains.
 
What is left?
I peep around the corner
of this last link lying.
In one word  -  love.
 

 

(First published Co-Op Poetry Festival 1994 Anthology)



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