It isn’t her in the parlour,
sleeping under the veil, stern
in her buttoned taffeta
with her spanner hands upturned.
Who she was is gone now
to the land of corn and wine,
only her semblance is laid down
before hymns and the divine.
But here, in her back garden,
at the bend of the path she waits
for a wave from me… then quite certain,
walks on through the wrought white gates.
Nicholas McGaughey lives in Pontypridd. He was a Literature Wales mentee in 2019/20. He has new work forthcoming in Beyond The Storm/Poetry Wales/Atrium/The Island Review/Gwyllion Magazine and The Atlanta Review.