Hidden Treasures
We rescued this small box
in memory of our mother
and tried to piece together
the threads of her past
which still hung in the air.
Passed down along the line
to the next generation,
A cardboard box with it's history,
a record of another time.
Grasping onto grainy images,
old and flaking,
with decades of dust and dampness
seeping into snapshots,
a distilled musty odour
wafted through
as we grappled with the memories,
stories unfolding before our eyes.
Immortalised on film,
family celebrations recorded
on grey stained coloured slides.
Old portraits of families standing to attention
revealing a glimpse of lives once lived.
Remembering kin we never knew
uniformed men in far away trenches,
an uncle walking his dog,
children paddling in a stream,
young women poised for greatness
smile diligently at the camera.
Retracing the secrets of past generations
who travelled to distant lands,
sepia shots worn and creased,
I am reliving the moments captured
on Ilford and veloux paper,
Vignettes of a disappearing world,
fading over time.
Unlocking a history which remained
hidden in a cardboard box,
my mother standing on the beach
in Keem bay, the wind in her hair,
sweeping away from her face,
she lives on in these black and white prints.
(this was written for my mother. The photo of her was taken in Achill in the early 1960s, before we moved to live on Achill in the 1970s. )
Bullsmouth
Blurred relections trip across the sea,
Shaded streaks and fragmented stars
Shimmer in the black horizon
The moon, bright and cold,
Dances to the waves,
Grey foam resting on the rocks,
Ebbing into night.
A white light flickers
Beaming a lone signal
Across the bay,
The shadowy moon watches over,
Transformed each night,
Elusive and fragile,
A startling new reflection
Appears each night,
Fading across each new horizon.
Bunnacurry Poet 