…
In this place there are empty shapes.
Spaces, moving. Here, there, everywhere.
Spaces moving among us, about us.
The shape of the missing,
we no longer hear, or see.
…
People we once knew, touched,
talked with, laughed with, cried too,
they were features of this place, this town,
…
…
My father wasn’t what you would call
in today’s patois a woke man
but he had his moments all the same
…
my father would talk about Sir Walter Raleigh,
or Rowley, with some disdain
another plantation owner
…
who’d taken over Irish estates and lands,
it came as…
…
Reminders memories
here then now
sounds made by children’s feet
legacies you say well there are many
taking you out at night time
a small child walking through mountain fields
showing you path lines walkways
closed eyes, eyes askance to scan
what lies behind beyond
one eye closed one…
…
…
On 9th March 2020, I suffered heart failure. With a heart rate of 257, I was rushed by ambulance to the Accident and Emergency of the local hospital which luckily for me had not been closed by the machinations of the Health Board bureaucracy.
…
My life was…
Rob Cullen artist, writer, poet, artist — admires Lorca, the view of my garden, the thoughts of my sheepdog. Likes cooking what I grow. www.celfypridd.co.uk
