Whispers
Jul 26, 2017 · 1 min read

On nights such as these,
when a north-easterly
lashes the cove,
like then,
she visits me.
I leave a light in the window
and huddle by the fire,
counting the minutes until
I sense her shadow at the sill.
I will tell her again
how much I love her
and pray she may whisper,
‘Come, father,
to my grave beneath the sea.’
© 2017 James Hanna-Magill
