Poetry Drawer: Sunday Mornings by Raine Geoghegan


He plays for me on Sunday mornings,
his own compositions.
His shoulders rise and fall as he
deftly runs his fingers across the keys.

My body sways tentatively,
drinking in the melody.
It falls into discordant notes,
a painter venturing into dark shadows.

I am cloth, unravelling.
Like a dervish,
I whirl, my heart opens as
the music builds into a crescendo.

A sweet essence flows back into my blood,
as if it were remembering the warmth of youth,
of wellness.
Of being in the sun.

Raine’s Website

Poetry Drawer: There is a River by Raine Geoghegan

Poetry Drawer: The Last Day by Raine Geoghegan (for my father James Charles Hill)

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