Brona's More than Music - Bróna Colfer's Poetry

Blasted by the wind Hit, hurt, walloped Carried along. Hurting. Up and over. The wind rushing and whistling And blowing through the cold shiver and lifting The blast cutting through. Through the air. Cutting through like a torch, A flaming torch, A cutting tool, Right through and then clean free air to flow over And up and over and up And over and up Free flowing, cool, flowing air. Blast it. Running on now, Running through the hills, Running in the wind Rushed by the wind Lifted by the wind Up, up and over. Brona Colfer (Found clearing out drawer in June 2021)

Make way. Clear a path, for the only thing that will last. Self fulfillment? Ambition? Wealth and recognition? Not at all! It's the tall boy with the long hair. The one who brings you joy. Who cares about the rest? It really doesn't matter. The chatter a distraction, almost an abstraction, remote and irrelevant. Remember that event 18 years ago. It is the only show in town. Drown in him. Begin to plan the end. Teach him to fend for himself. Prepare. It's the only way to care. Your legacy his future. Suture your heartbreak, and make way. Bróna Colfer

If someone told you you were dying what would you do? Would you pine? Or pour a glass of wine? Would you tell everyone it's fine, or decline? Would you dream of all the things undone, or think of all the fun you've had? Are you a glass half full, or empty, with plenty of time for despondency? Would you sink with the death fright? A fact denied. Or not hide and live for as long as you can find? Bróna Colfer

My parents stand on a cloud. They look towards me with arms around each other. Dressed as they always did, there is a whiteness surrounding them. There is no action, no movement, they are not talking, no sound. No structures, no pathways, no others. Only stillness, calm. Their faces are peace and joy. It is their faces that communicate. All tension gone. All pain released. A love total and unconditional. Warm and reaching out. They look young. My father smiles. My mother's eyes shine. Together in a new way. Embracing me.

Waiting for the news of laboratory test results. All clear, and life goes on. Complacency will seep in again, the luxury of time wasting. But other, not so defined futures explode in all directions. Internal images of pain. A fear of death's impact, of the unseen. It's easy to be brave when you are well. I sit on my chair, gripped, waiting for the call. The terror of the unknown is almost paralysing.

I turn my car into the driveway, and freeze. The house sits in darkness. I sit, and stare. No light means no life. No father sitting in his armchair. The jobs list will not be waiting. The day's stories will not be told. The wine for sharing will not be in the fridge. The house of my childhood is empty. It grieves in the dark. Memories whisper to each other. Rooms sigh as I move into the silence. A picture, a newspaper, a cardigan on the back of a chair. A jar of pickled onions left out. Waiting for an old man not coming back, for children raised and gone. for a mother who died many years before. Her snowdrops flower on the doorstep. The house is cold, calm, and still. I am enveloped in sadness. Bróna Colfer