Norah Reade

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Two windows either side of
a blue painted door of boards,
and a key hole chewed at the edges
by the repeated penetration
of the gaoler's key.

Even the smoke
seemed reluctant to leave
the red pipe chimney,
with its cage of wire,
put up by her father
in his interminable battle
with the black crows.

She lived behind the whitethorn hedge,
-a bent woman was Norah Reade-
and she was kept alive by daily tasks
and oblivious to my future's urgent need to happen.

And we cried witch! and ran
to avoid the evil eye,
not knowing the hurt that is done,
when your life, is the only
life that matters.

©Copyright Niall OConnor 2013