The Lost Glen
by James McGonigal
One of these years
he might miss not only her birthday
but the date of her death. Waking at five
to slap barefoot through the half–dark
and contemplate mist easing up the glen
to brush fleece and cattle rumps, the ponies
grey–bearded now, stiff–legged
as he peered out for their shadows grazing —
She came back to me last night
in the deep blue dress with hair adrift
across one shoulder as she always used to
like to wear it with that dress. Long light
falling across the dream. Outside
burn waters tsked and bustled
sweeping word after word away.
glossary
glen: valley
burn: stream