A retired librarian, Helen Fallon lives in Kildare. Her work has been published in a number of journals and anthologies including Galway Review, Skylight 47, Poetry Ireland Review (PIR), A New Ulster, The Ogham Stone, The Stony Thursday Book and Washing Windows: Irish Women write Poetry III and IV & V. She was selected for Poetry Ireland Introductions 2022 and awarded a John Hewitt Summer School 2024 Bursary.
Brooding
Crunch of gravel. Father left me at the home.
I climbed the stone steps alone.
A nun dragged open the heavy door.
Your name is changed. You are no longer Brigid.
Here you will be called Molly.
Mornings I feed plump-bellied hens.
They cluck and squawk across the yard.
Heads bob, peck and scratch the dusty ground.
I name them Milly, Ruby, Martha,
Maisy, Rosie, Ellie.
Nights I check the hen house,
count my charges roosting. Broody Flo rests
in a box below, shelters her clutch in straw.
I stroke her speckled feathers whisper
My name is Brigid.
Weeks later I click the latch
Flo squats feathers puffed, broken shell,
downy fluff scattered all around.
Nine yellow chicks peep
beneath her plumage.
Your son has gone to a good family.
Car fogged with cigarette smoke,
Father drove me home in silence
through towns with narrow streets
thin church spires and yapping dogs.
Later I married. As the priest poured water
over my baby’s shell-soft head,
and made the sign of the cross
I heard the hen house girl
weep for her loss.
Sarah, in Passing
She was never one to miss Sunday mass,
or the Blessing of the graves.
I wanted to call out, tell the priest how the two of us
would visit, sockless, in flimsy dresses. Sarah gave us tea
in blue and white striped mugs, with frothy milk
from the pitcher on the wooden dresser.
As he raised the host, I wanted to call out,
tell him how her cornmeal bread was warm
and yellow, thick slices lathered with butter,
that crumbled in our hungry mouths.
As we walked up the aisle to communion,
I wanted to call out, tell how we trailed her
across the yard as she scattered grain to the hens,
calling Chuck, Chuck, chuck, Hetty, Lottie, Rosie, Flo.
Once she found a feather, jet black. She stood still
for what seemed a long time, looking at it,
then she ran it over her wrinkled cheek
slowly, savouring its perfection.
Grandmother’s Story
Elizabeth Harte 1888-1924
If I write of you what story shall I share?
a farmer’s daughter, born under British rule,
I know you only from this sepia picture.
Back then photographs were so very rare,
You stayed at home after you finished school.
if I write of you what story will I share?
I see you, a young bride, with solemn stare,
in your suit with wide lapels, soft grey wool.
I know you only from this sepia picture.
You marry a widower, take on to care
for his three small sons, dairy, farm and fowl.
if I write of you what story will I share?
Your right hand rests lightly on his shoulder.
You stand behind him, he sits with arms folded.
I know you only from this sepia picture.
You will die before you grow much older,
giving birth to a son you do not hold.
if I write of you what story will I share?
I know you only from this sepia picture.
The Galway Review 