Mary Howlett is a writer from Waterford. Her work is published in Southword, The Honest Ulsterman, Waxed Lemon, Drawn to the Light Press, Poem Alone, Swerve Magazine, A New Ulster, Poetry Bus 12, The Get Real, Steel Jackdaw, Southlight 37, Literature Today, Frogmore Papers, Soul Rice, Allegro, N&H Journal, Amethyst Review and elsewhere. She has been Highly Commended in the Cathal Buí and 12th Bangor Poetry Competitions.

Drawn To Vacant Places

I walk through the stone arch at Jerpoint, hear the caw,
caw of black crows in the Abbey. There is no one home:

the echo of hooded monks in prayer, their chant
filling the windswept void. Mythological creatures

incised in its cloisters, orange moss shrouds worn faces
of stone saints. The tower bell silent, except for the wind

stomping across the river Nore. Brave knights
guard medieval tombs, they stare into eternity.

Over a drystone wall the scent of daisy, meadowsweet
and yarrow, the rose-purple of cranesbill.

What is it in me that’s drawn to these vacant places:
I will leave the way I’ve come-

I stand in the field of bent grasses, whisper their names
in the silence: ryegrass, red fescue, sweet vernal, cock’s-foot.

Lacy White Clusters

On 28th February 2026 a Tomahawk cruise missile exploded on an elementary school in Minab, Southern Iran, 175 children, teachers and staff were killed.

Fresh soil on her wellies, my mother came in from the allotment,
nursing a bunch of bolted carrots, stalks with lacy white
umbrella-shaped clusters trembling among the leaves-
A day of war, a Tomahawk rained down on innocents.
Under the naked cloud of dust and ash, she took the stalks,
placed them in a glass vase of lukewarm water, yellow
sunlight flooded in the window, a shaft of rainbow rested
over the kitchen. She closed her eyes in the silence,
said a prayer for us and for them-
A prayer, small and delicate like the white flowers opening
against all the odds, held in the arms of morning sunshine.

Sorrow

fell like flakes of snow on the day
of your funeral. Flecks swirling

around us as we drove in convoy
to the Island Crematorium. We passed

stone faced rock shrouded in white
mystery, a Christmas card’s magical scene.

We were ushered in to take our places
in the front row. I shivered when

your favourite song drifted ghostlike
from a black CD player in the corner.

Plastic flowers tried to stand up straight
in the ice. Dampness seeped through my bones.

Cold pleasantries dished up later in the hotel bar.
I pulled my down-filled Canada goose tight

as we stepped outside, the flagstones dusted
grey as ashes. Frosted leaves barely clung

to naked branches on the roadside, hanging on-
We headed home, chill of the day behind us.

Benedictus

Morning opening her mouth
Feeding fat worms to blind chicks
Her shrill song piercing soft rain.
Here I am with my porous shallow bowl
Begging for scraps
Hoping for mercy.

Turkish Delight

Though her doctors said no sugar,
she hankered for sweetness on her tongue.

Tingling in her hands and feet, endless
thirst, blurred vision, fatigue, weakness,

but still she longed for Oatfield’s mint humbugs,
Brudair’s iced pink fairy cakes, lemon sherbet,

coke and fizzy drinks in every colour and hue.
When I did her shopping, I was careful to look

for sugar free, tofu, nuts, seeds and wholegrains.
I brought home tomatoes, lettuce, unsweetened

yogurt, cottage cheese, plain rice cakes.
I tried to keep her alive but she died anyway.

Guilt nagged me like a migraine, why had I denied her
those simple pleasures, those cravings, what was the point? –

Weeks later while clearing her room, I found empty
chocolate biscuit packets hidden under the mattress,

fizzy drinks bottles piled up at the back of the wardrobe.
Quality Street wrappers, half eaten tins of Roses,

Cadburys Turkish Delight bars, her favourite.
I sat on her single bed, treat wrappers piled high as hay.

Even now she brought a smile to my lips, always pulling
a fast one, outsmarting us like clever poem endings.