Promises On Broken Waves

Around January, when the nights creep towards day, there
can be a chill. Cold winds anger the sea, as it pushes towards
the bay of Wicklow Town.

Sometimes, rain will come with wild expectations, falling
upon us all. Yet never leaving a mark on the spirit,
simply leaving it’s tears upon the ground.

It can be lonely, dark and morbid so early in the year
by the Black Castle. But one thing fills the soul, with
a warmth that so little can, in these times.

The dream of a sunny day. The longing of a memory
hanging, holding – tight – of sitting on a bench, facing the same,
yet calmer, sea. Free and flirting minds.

On fudge from Madden’s shop, a smile, glistening black hair
and a striking woolly top. Embarrassing silences drifting in,
between the jokes and curiosity.

The dawn of summer brought the death of winter as life,
shielded by anticipation, of this rare and wonderful thing,
called joy was now within sight of me.

Promises on broken waves, dreams of slightly finer days,
when storms were nothing more than fears,
when pain was nothing more than tears.

As again towards cold January wept, we walk, prepared
alas alone. One cannot grasp what has been lost,
when one has lost a broken soul.

Written By Shane Ferguson
On The 3rd December 2007