Aching On Return

By Eva Griffin

 

Slow humming in my chest

the size of a pinhole

where the Little Skellig might fit

as I ride backwards through Mallow

pulling away from the edge over and over,

further still from the breaking in the rain;

the only sun of October.

The hills are houses once more

and I think if I were alone I could cry

but the train is full and so

to calm the beating I finger

a penny in my pocket,

silver and turning in my beach-weathered hands,

your face reflected in it,

dewy, like the morning I left.

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