Observatory

Moon, lonely, a sentinel
cloud ,gauzy, ephemeral
wraps in a lover's embrace
light as the trailing lace
of an abandoned negligee.
Tears have worn my face
as if it was limestone
it has no shape tonight
its edges are blurred
so I don't look in the mirror.

When deaths occur
mirrors in bedrooms are covered
clean tray cloths draped
over heavy mahogany frames.
When birds are trapped in rooms
I cover them with a raffia basket
and help them out of a window.

For this small kindness
I hope for help from strangers
for compassion from taxi drivers,
when I am friendless in frightening cities
whose language I do not know
when I scour a nation's galleries
for clues of tribal behaviour,

but especially to kill time
to put off the moment
before I must turn the handle
of a double room
with only one side of the bed turned down
to find a flannel nightie
has replaced my lace negligee.

My body is slowing down:
all my muscles ache
after just one hour in the garden.
I observe the pear trees:
for all the beauty of their golden green
they cannot hide their lack of fruit
and the beginnings of mildew
in the middle branches .

Gracefully

There is no one waiting for me at the station
No one I recognise.
Coming home no longer feels warm.
I haul my bag off the train and make for a bus
Warding off branches pelting rain
Umbrella poised against possible violation,

Its closed spokes tight with righteous indignation.
Young people kissing and laughing
In the month of the Holy Souls
They have no right
To copulate tonight.

Darkness is what I fear , and what I crave .
The company of a cat ,the intimate whisper of the radio
Enough. No response required.
No need to primp and pamper starve and slave
No man around to bother with
Thank God.

Ignoring the signals
Such as creaking in my knees or sweating through the night
Insomniac,
I was not growing old gracefully
When you left.
Still the mirror doesn't lie and you yourself …
Recriminations useless now
No point in wasting energy I haven't got.

I light the gas fire hating the sudden plop
Firing it into heat
The luxury of the second bar
Tonight's parsimonious treat.
Rain spatters the window .
In the low moan of the wind I catch your voice
Steady my hand as I pour the first of the day.

^

Biography

Patricia-Anne Moore originally a native of Belfast now lives in Killaloe Co Clare where she has fallen in love with the landscape. She is interested in body mind spirit connection and in the process of change in people . She has had poetry published in a variety of magazines and internationally . Currently she is working on a first collection.