Saturday, June 28, 2014


I see myself as stranger,

in that town of forty winters
and summers past
where I was weaned,
walking awkwardly, uncomfortable;
a time traveler fearing
the paradox of meeting

Everything and nothing has changed
like the constant rate of the river flow
thunderous beneath the promise 
of leaping salmon 
throwing themselves against time's weir.

People look strangely familiar,
and I try to read the DNA family portraits
written on their cryptic faces
to my confusion and dismay.

Dismissive they are,
since I look past them to see others,
and all is hollow, shadow formed,
except the gravestone lichened,
and the sharpened reality
of a mother's grave.

©Copyright Niall OConnor2014

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