Maura Dooley
Legacy
Your great-grandmother’s castle is
a black and white photograph curling
in the hand’s heat, a ruined tower
in someone else’s field. And on the door
your initials, carved in the heart of youth
are not even a speck in the picture’s grain.
You’ll go there some day. Pull back the barbed wire,
or set the chairs tumbling in the landlord’s house
like some technicoloured scene from The Quiet
Man,
tossing your hair like a heritage, accent all wrong.
You’ll go there some day find the approach too
hard,
the bramble thick and high, the road unmarked,
the tower so softened by moss it’s vanished utterly
slipped back into the land, like the language you’ve
lost.
 |
| Ted Schofield |
| Snowflake (Intermediary) |
| Knitting Patterns |
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