They lie on the lower rung

of the shoe rack, with a layer of dust.

 

The colour of pea soup, mange tout

and under ripe bananas, or the sea

at Kinnagoe on a glorious day.

Once you’ve seen salt water like that,

you realise anything’s possible.

 

I’m unsure you wore them at all

with their round toes and garish rosettes,

they screamed twin-sets and blue rinses.

I took a few of your tops, a blouse

I did not particularly like,

knew our mother wouldn’t donate

them to the local charity shop,

but one miles and miles away.

 

I see your slow, sad gait 

walking off in my dreams,

in footwear without any socks.

 

But I cannot get rid of those shoes, 

a size too big and no use to me.

Sometimes I slip them on, 

shuffle around in my room at night,

the wine carpet muffles my steps.

 

A sliver of comfort

in a silver world, where you

weren’t meant to go grey after me.

 

Previously published in Willawaw Winter 2019 Issue 8

 ©

Lorraine Carey is a Donegal poet and artist now living in Kerry. Her work has been published widely in Ireland, U.S.A, Britain and Australia. From Doll House Windows is her debut collection, comprising of 48 poems, many of which are based in and around Greencastle, Inishowen, where she grew up. https://www.facebook.com/lcarey73/