Flanagan phoned – left a message

Flanagan phoned – left a message

 

 

'hope you’re well

I’m down your way

be nice to catch up

I’ll bring some snaps of

my latest artwork’

 

Flanagan had a forename

but she doesn’t use it

and I’ve forgotten it

 

she lives alone

on the wild coast

of Donegal (or is it Mayo?)

painting wistful landscapes

despite her arthritis

 

gentle reminders

of buried days

 

since her transplant

she’s been teetotal

 

she claims she doesn’t miss ‘the drink’ -

I don’t believe her

 

we’ll we'll talk old times,

sip china tea from

china cups

 

‘two cubes or one?’

‘none for me, I’m sweet enough’

 

I’ll show her some small thing I’ve written

she’ll murmur ‘love it’

but won’t mean it

 

she’ll unveil photos

of her paintings,

 

Clew Bay from Croagh Patrick,

a broken cottage outside Westport

a lighthouse, a plough,

a man bagging peat

 

I’ll try not to weep

at the lost world

she evokes

 

we’ll sit in the garden

in the last of the sun

 

‘why weren’t we lovers

we had our chances?’

 

‘we left that aside

for moments like this.’