Maureen Curran

Here is the thing

Maureen Curran

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On the surface nothing changed

no birds threaded footsteps in the back door

there was no wraith omening the end.

So, Saturday night pyjamaed, we tumbled by the tv

cadged chips or a bite of pineapple fritter

from a Golden Grill takeaway before bed.

Sunday morning we trotted up the chapel floor,

took our places on our knees, socks pulled up,

picked at the chalices glued to the front of our missals.

We clacked roller-skated laps around the houses

popped tennis-balls off the wall, minded the younger ones.

Flinging skyward, we lifted the swing set out of the ground.

I read of periods and love-bites in second-hand Jackies.

wanted a dog, believed in books and God and parents.

Maureen Curran

Maureen Curran is from Donegal. Her poems have appeared in Boyne Berries, Crannóg, Envoi, Poetry BusRevival, the Stony Thursday Book, Skylight 47, online at Lake Poetry, SouthwordSpontaneity and Word Bohemia. Her flash fiction has been published online by She blogs with her group at and Tweets @maureenwcurran 

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