Madeleine

When did I start crying, was it going back to Ireland, or when my son asked why, Nana loved the horses, you who poured sand, on that first course, like the ferry, kids playing, in how my life was crammed, anchored by your chains, you say Ma is forlorn, a martyr to her chip pan, did it ever dawn, you are the one who lies, somehow run aground, you ask me to try, through these hissing storms, masking the wounds, in troubled dust forcing, all that can’t be found..