I can hear the sea outside my window
and the beat of the waves against the sand.
The glimpse of your face in the shadows,
tears down my cheek, splashing on my hand.
My paper’s all covered with lines that I write
trying to express what countless poets have said..
To put into different words how I fight the emptiness
of my room and the loneliness ahead.
I’m making my own unhappiness as punishment
for leaving you because I was proud
Waiting for a letter you may have sent,
trying to be happy with what surrounds.
There’s nothing that means very much to me.
What I want I can’t have – I did it to myself.
You’re not to blame because you couldn’t see
how serious all the little things were, that I felt, to me.
Frances Macaulay Forde © 1974
(1st pub; “Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey” Ireland, 2003.)
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