Attracta Fahy has a background in Nursing and Social Care. She works in private practice as an Integrative and Humanistic Psychotherapist/Supervisor. She is lives in Co.Galway, and is currently doing her MA in Writing in the National University of Ireland.

The Curragh Line

There’s a fog across the bog today,
over the curragh line, a dew-mist
sits on heather, all ghostly outlines,
traces of pink, announce the arrival
of sunrise. At a snail’s pace,
cars, bumper to bumper, make

their way to the city,
journey into their day.
Through dew, they pace
in meditation through a silent mist,
otherworldly. Over the bridge,
faint outlines of fog lights.

The morning sun flares,
streams of light call in the day.
From this mystical mist,
we slowly move in pace
with the light, keeping pace
along the road, with outlines
of yellow furze hidden in mist.

To the side, the river makes
its way under the bridge each day,
easing towards its arrival
in other lands, in sync with its pace,
flowing in quiet rhythm today,
its contemplative outlines,
shimmering currents, making
intimate love with the mist.

The sky draws the mist
along the road, then blue
slips of color make way
for the morning sun, in pace
with the lifting vapor, its outlines
welcome the arrival of another day.

Through the morning mist we make
our way, pacing through the bleak bogs,
the furze and heather, welcome the day.
__________________________

Animus

Ever since I had heard my first
love story,
I had been searching
for you.
Blindly
seeing you
projected
into
other faces.

I stayed, competing for you,
with something unknown.
Longing
I feel too old now to search.
Tired, I find you
within my own inner
rejection.
No longer available
to be yours.
__________________________

When all of this is Over

When all of this is over,
and I, no longer a servant
to voices, will reject the words
of those who said,
“You are not enough”.

I will wear the royal blue
dress, waiting behind others
bought to cloak unmet needs.
Will sit and light a candle,
say goodbye to the ghosts
of my lost Eden.
I will bring color into the
nooks and crannies of my house,
painted white to purify pain.
Pick fruit and bake,
the smell of apple tart
into my kitchen,
calling my heart
back to its home.

I will weave
color into my
garden, sit in late summer sun,
picking pearls from memories
that defined the lines on my face.
Palettes and tones of auburn leaves
will fall like confetti on the
threshold, as I give birth from
the dark depths of the earth
to my own self, my own Eden.
I will call out as a woman,
“I am more than enough”.