Welcome to this weeks Sunday Sit Down. Grab a cuppa and a comfy chair and sit down to read. When I wrote the poem Trying to Put Words that Sentiment it was almost a relief. You know those moments in life when you just can’t explain how you feel, or what you mean? When the words are at the tip of your tongue but nothing comes out? That is what this poem is about. It is the emotions, the thoughts and the dreams that settle deep inside you somewhere, unable to explain themselves. I hope you enjoy it.
~~~ Trying to Put Words to that Sentiment ~~~
It’s like everything has become dispersed and is floating high over the tops
Of the MacGillicuddy Reeks, dangerously close to no oxygen.
And it’s as though your bones are packed so tightly into clean jam jars waiting
For next seasons blackberries to be picked from O’Grady’s Farm.
It’s like blindly looking for Malachy’s field with the one-shoed horse, by the calves
To the left of the rusted barn with overgrown ivy to the east, with ease.
And it’s as though you’re remembering what they said to you when you were five
Standing in the rockery of your grandmothers garden painting gnomes.
It’s like getting to the top of the Laxey Wheel and realising you are afraid
Of heights, looking down and feeling your stomach was left below.
And it’s as though you’re wondering if he will ever call, or if it will snow or
if summer will come early, or if it really is bad luck to cross a black cats path.
It’s like ears pricking at the sound of thunder and watching for lightning
Through the browning net curtains of the small kitchen window.
And it’s as though you’re letting the gale force wind push you down the hill or
allowing the sun to burn only your left side as you drink lemonade on someone else’s porch.
It’s like watching the grey hairs of your loved one spread from the top of their head
To their eyebrows, whiskers and the light hairs on the top of their left foot.
And it’s as though you’re skipping stones on a smooth lake, leaving dust clouds behind you
As you roll down sand dunes, or scraping your knee when you’re seven.
It’s when you don’t know how to put words to this feeling but it’s bubbling
In the tips of your toes forcing you to stand on tiptoe like a soft-footed dancer.
It’s innocence and truth, hunger and thirst, pain and pleasure, agony and hope.
It’s every feeling you’ve ever felt tightly tied in bubble wrap waiting to be popped.
Geraldine Walsh © Over Heaven’s Hill
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