Rona Fitzgerald was born in Dublin; she now lives in Glasgow. Rona writes poetry, stories and non-fiction. Her writing is included in publications in print and online. Highlights include The Stinging Fly, Oxford Poetry, and the Blue Nib Magazine. In July 2020 she was among the Federation of Writers short story competition winners. Recent publications include, Littoral Magazine 2021, The Brown Envelope Book, 2021, The Arbroath Anthology 2021, Marble Broadsheet 21, Fixator Press 2021, Dreich Season 4 no 3 2022, A Fish Rots From the Head 2022, Culture Matters 2022, Reign 2022, The Storms, Issue2, February 2023.

The Audition

I should never have applied – two buses after school,
my final exams are next month. The hall’s a church
with traces of linseed oil, pollen and incense.
A silent hymn sheet sits on each pew.

The manager/conductor, a former diva in a full length
gentian dress – points to the top line and asks me to sing.
‘There’s no need to bellow your voice is clear and true,
take a deep breath, whisper the line.’ And I did.

On the way home I buy chips savouring the sharp salt
on my lips, the dry scratchy paper on my moist palms.
Walking in evening traffic, I hear below the thrum of traffic,
the sigh of honeysuckle as rain falls.

At Maryhill Lock

a lone swan
elegant as she threads water.
Did I imagine her head stooped
in sorrow, perhaps remembering
the time when they were two –
setting out, starting a family.
Longing to love them, to teach them
how to float, how to fly.
Or maybe, like me
it was only in her dreams.

Suaimhneas na coilte

Cawdor forest, July 2021

We are out

at the gate she asks if we want the castle and the gardens
we opt for gardens and the forest walk.

A soft mist hangs on the trees as we set off.
The river mirrors our climb, murmurs soft phrases.

Ancient trees reach for the light, offer fellowship
a reminder of other hands – of the long reach of time.

Then, soft susurrations as the wind lifts.
The forest bathes us in green as healing as an ocean.

As we ascend, blackbirds begin choir practice;
their sound a caress like a lullaby from home.

A balm for my pavement-burnt feet,
my pandemic-punctured heart.

Samhain/All Hallows Eve

I feel your loss more at this time
with the gathering of the dead.
I wonder if you are at the doorway
waiting to move on, still.

I remember how you loved this season
with its abundance of colour – ioldaite
the last traces of our own flowering
as we head for oblivion.

Today I watched the final venting of autumn leaves
draining colour from my world.
The wind raged with a ferocity that matched your own
as you fought to live, and then, to die.