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Poem: The Last Stand 

Wearing a pale green suit
She stood beside her battered bag
And fingering her beads
She remembered her boy’s bony knee.

She freed a foot from her narrow shoe
And placed it on the hard wood floor
Feeling the cold seep through she said
‘My son has gone to park the car’.

Two hours passed like the fluttering of flying bats
No one saw a slip dip
Or a run climb softly up her leg
Or how the candles lit his face when he was four.


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  • A poem by Deirdre Dowling

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