Máire Morrissey-Cummins – Four poems

maireMáire Morrissey-Cummins is from Waterford.  After working for many years in the Financial Sector, she lately has found the wonder of poetry and art. She has been published with Every Day Poets, Wordlegs, The First Cut, A New Ulster, Open Road Review, Your Daily Poem, Bray Arts, The Galway Review, Verseland, Notes from the Gean, A Hundred Gourds, Lynx, Sketchbook, Kernels, The Never Ending Story, Chrysanthemum and many online and print magazines worldwide. She is a member of Haiku Ireland. She was listed in the top 100 European Haiku writers for 2012.


Rain Rhythms

She slides the curtains
to the changing season,
clicks the window shut
on a rain drenched morning,
thick mist crossing the sea.

The radiator ticks,
swirls with waters warm
filling the room
with a July noon.

She pats down her dreams
on a slumber tossed duvet,
soothed by the drumming rain.
A flame lamp lights the dusky morning,
precious warmth on a November day.


Gusting your way home

Just as I get used to being alone
you return

like a gust of wind.
Your autumnal breath
flutters the room,
words blaze like falling leaves
and I am caught in your shimmering web.

The glint in your eyes
sparkles like sun-lit water
as you open your arms,

I tumble between them.
Winter’s chill

in a suitcase of soiled linen,
abandoned with your embrace.


Sparkle of Wings

A flight of gulls
glide the rooftops
coasting towards the sea.
The train chugs deeper
into the city,
sparkles of ocean
ripple behind me,
purple mountains
fade in the distance.

Dark tunnels of Summer’s end
emerge to elderberry Autumn.
Auburn fields fly by
and I am surrounded by strangers,
knees touching knees,
my feet poised tippy toes
ready to take flight
like the wings of birds.
I want to feel cool water
splash between my toes,
to return to the sea,
to the shine of Greystones,
away from the drab grey concrete
of the city.


Fresh Paint

Autumn eventide,
nestled beneath freshly painted walls

I trek through mossy green fields
bordered with tender yew.

A dark shadows above the wardrobe
takes me to pine scented forests,

high, amid snow-peaked mountains
on a dense winter’s day.

Candlelight flickers
on the new white cabinet,

a flame sunrise
crosses oceans deep.

My breath rises and falls
like a sprinkle of mist

touching the silent spaces
between falling leaves.

Opening my book,

I crease into soft white pillows
legs long, crossed at the ankles,

painted toes twitch for warmth
the nip of an October night, biting,

as I join the search for a missing child
in the story of Lucy Gaunt.


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