Posted in poetry


Moments by themselves
Are the merest things,
Never quite here,
Then gone.
More ephemeral 
Than mayflies or meteors.
But they collect downstream
Where memory waits —
Beads for her art.
And we bear them then
And feel their weight
And their warmth
And their sting.


I’ve retired after a career teaching law. I divide my time now between Athens, Georgia, in the States and the south coast of Ireland.