Whispers


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

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