Breda Joyce’s poem The Void was commended in November 2013 in The Poetry Project Award. Her memoir, John Henry Joyce and the Nine Irons, was long listed in the Fish Publishing contest in 2013. Her poems and a memoir piece were published in Musebox, 20111/2012. Her story, Thresholds was published in The Ireland’s Own Anthology 2010. Her poems have been twice shortlisted for The Writing Spirit Award.
On this May morning
I awake to birdsong breaking night,
to hawthorn creaming hedges.
My first seedlings are claiming clay,
though a hint of bluebells still holds sway.
Evening carries our children’s voices
as frame by frame you tend your beloved bees.
Hives pulse with earnest endeavour
like your golden pocket watch, my gift to you
on a spring night in eighty nine;
my heart tries to stall winding time.
My hands tremble
lest such moments
trickle through cupped fingers.
Fingers of sycamore
at the end of an outstretched limb;
wing spanned they play
into the November air
‘till they run out of octaves,
unheard by all but those
who bend like boughs
and listen to their silent fall
as they are taken
into the music of water
by the Mall;
the gush and shush
of timeless metronomes
beat out unearthly arias.
Age spots stain beech leaves
in November tones of brown, then black.
Veins now clearly defined
as colours seep from verdant green to russet gold;
the year is growing old.
The sky leaks light; day races towards night
while spiders sling webs across the beech hedge.
They know nothing of slippage, of seepage.