November with Yeats #7 – The fading star


‘…stars, grown old

In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,

Sing in their high and lonely melody.’



We are all a little faded now,
And in the sunlight you can see
The places where sequins have shed,
And the spots of tarnish
That won’t rub off, no matter what.

We are all a little faded now,
Greying roots beneath the blonde,
But even though there’s no-one to see,
We still apply a bit of lippy
In pillar box red, or candy-floss pink,

And we still hit the town
On a Friday night, and we still
Hum a tune as we line our eyes
And spray our hair to give it some bounce,
And wince as we pull on our dancing shoes.


Day 7 of Jane’s month with Yeats. I think if you head and look at her poem for today, you will realise what a massive range of topics these prompts are generating. 

November with Yeats #4

“…till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet…”

My Mother’s Angels

While my father slept
angels came, and visited my mother.

Sometimes they shared
her tea and cakes,
sometimes they whispered secrets,
sometimes they sang their songs
of peace and love, while she
accompanied them, on the
old upright piano.

They left behind
a sweet narcissus scent,
and one long feather,
white and beautiful.

Years later, when she had
shrunk and shriveled to old age,
she’d lie there, in her wide
and lonely bed, gazing
at nothing, stroking it
whit paper fingers, and

their great wings, crushed
against the kitchen ceiling,
their pale feet, and their eyes
blazing like joyful stars.



This is for Jane Dougherty, who gave us the quote at the top as inspiration for day 4 of a month with Yeats. 

A month with Yeats #3

With all their ancient faces like weather beaten stones…

Connemara Gravestones

They line up to face the water
In that space between
The living and the dead,
That narrow space between
Here and there, light and dark,
Today and yesterday,
Between the fertile ground
And the strand, where nothing grows,
Only the kelp sprawls
And coils in shining ripples.

Flowers have been left here,
Faded reds and pinks,
Storm tattered and fading,

And there, the Virgin
Holds her hands open,
To receive the wind, the rain,
As if they were a blessing,
Head tilted, to hear the sea,
Moving restlessly, relentlessly.

This is for Jane Dougherty’s Month with Yeats challenge. The first line (in italics) of the post is the inspiration she offers, and it reminded me of a cemetery we walked past in Connemara a couple of years ago, down on the seashore.