Flowers On Your Grave

It's a cold December.
The bitter north wind
Fleeces past us; our
Ears sting and the birds
Are silent.
Wreaths lie forlorn
On the clogged-up soil.
Holly and Ivy, decaying,
Lie beside the rose bushes
And a few scattered leaves.
The eternal candle flinches
In the Winter wind; its solemn
Light is a comfort; of sorts.
The train departs; in the distance;
Dublin-bound.
Wheels rumble on steel tracks
As we stand over our dear departed
And place new offerings on her grave.

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Biography

I am a full time Galway writer. My first love is poetry and I have a large collection written to date. I have finished a crime novel in March called ' Venal Hunger ' and I am currently working on a second crime book. I am also in the process of writing a memoir about my late mother, Ann.