Poetry

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Is it there yet?
I check my phone.
No text from home.
Just an earlier promise of delivery by end of day.
It’ll be there.

I hold her hand, and we turn once more to watch this evening’s sky slide from golden orange to bloodied tear as it slips beneath a sharp September sky.

I hold her hand and watch her sleep and then as this day passes into the next, I steal away.
Away home to check for her woven casket.

I hold her hand that morning, in the darkness before the dawn.
I hold her hand as it slowly cools and wish I’d listened instead of heard.

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My name is Liam Robertson. I live with my four children in the village of Rostrevor. I had a wife, Niamh, but she died not that long ago. Most days you will find me writing code to feed my family. Most nights I write prose and poetry to prick and prod that ragged tear loss leaves behind.
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