Sunday, November 27, 2016






Long Shadows

I like it when the sun
cast my shadow
long and lean,
then the image of my father
returns to me.
Arms loose, sleeves rolled
we swing along.
It is my eighth birthday
and my Daddy sings this song.

You are my sunshine
my only sunshine
You make me happy
when skies are gray ...

Like gold, love shines through.
I put this nugget in my pocket
kept it long after
my father
went away.

Bridget Harwell

Tuesday, October 18, 2016






Two Faced

Autumn is a lovely word
that lingers on the tongue
full and round as a pumpkin.

Fall is quick
lean as a stick.
An imperative
not to be denied
no matter the richness
of the harvest.

Bridget Harwell





The End of October

Bushels of leaves
hang on the trees
with not a wisp of wind
to shake them.
Like paratroopers
on the edge of plunge
they wait
one
two
three
all
fall
down

Bridget Harwell

Wednesday, August 17, 2016


Altamont

I spent a summer day
in the vast garden of Altamont,
long past its time of sculptured yews 
and tended flowers.
Free to roam, roses and azaleas mixed
with daffodils and bluebells
and rhododendron ran wild down the lanes. 
A different, fallen beauty.
But I minded the lake.
Overtaken by lilies,
it could not move in the breeze.
The house, too, was enclosed,
choked by moss and vines, 
its windows shuttered.
On a side veranda,
perched upon a parapet,
a peacock stood alone
waiting, perhaps, for a larger crowd
that did not come.
It spread enormous wings,
opened a wide throat and brayed,
an eerie, high pitched call.
I fancied it missed its fellow creatures
and the sweep of their tails over cut green fields.
Knowing well the call to better days,
I turned away.

Bridget Harwell

*Altamont is a garden in Ireland 

Sunday, July 17, 2016






On a Rocky Beach in Maine

evergreen air
lapping water
evening sun
we searched for shapes
and colors.
My eye caught many,
yours but one.
You pressed into my hand,
closed our fingers round,
a heart shape stone
I meant to keep forever
... but lost along the way.
Dormant half a century,
that still frame moment
returned to me,
woke me in the night
like the snap of a branch
or the call of a loon
over water.

Bridget Harwell                  

Monday, June 27, 2016

Spinner




He looked up
at the moon,
golden threads
spilling through
black branches
of a tree.

Only he
had this view,
this beauty
spun in his soul
disclaimer
of his
irrelevance.

Bridget Harwell