The Dreamer

The Dreamer

by Aoife Mannix

It’s the chair pulled back

as if someone had just stood up

and walked out of the painting.

Taking their cup of coffee with them

to be followed by the dark eyes

of a man who has closed

a small drawer hidden

under the lip of the table.

It sings of love letters.

Or an apple knife used for carving

the name of a boat. The white sail

of the book he will turn to read.

The words a splash of light

supported by the sea green

of a metal pot. Hot aroma,

lost fishing trips. Bittersweet.

The shores of Lough Carra.

The curled snake inside the oil lamp,

an emerald genie flickering

with the promise of evening

when he will row across the stars.

The shadow of constellations

burnt into the blue of his beard.

How he will drain that cup

any moment now to go out

into the yard to pump water

from  a brown tap. Forgetting

the remnants of her laughter

in a cream room when she turned

to dance before vanishing

down a long corridor

where there were no windows.

He knew then he was alone

in the muted questions of how

hard to grip the brush. How to

blend the walls with the floor.

How to hold the simplest of questions

in eyes that long to know

how harsh is the storm?

How far away is the dawn?