Fionnuala Waldron
The Road Home
Sometimes, I think of the journey we took that night—my brother’s sombre voice on the phone and then, three hours later, with my eldest daughter beside me, driving out of the well-lit city towards darkening country roads. A reluctant driver, I find driving by night challenging at the best of times. That night, blinded by the headlights of oncoming cars, I pulled into the ditch and laid my head on the steering wheel. “Are you alright, Mam?” she asked.
moonlight shining
on the mayflower
the night you died
I began to drive more slowly, down familiar roads made strange by darkness. Taking advantage of our slow pace, night creatures followed their habitual pathways. On each side of the road, grasses quivered with movement. A fox, muscular and lithe, padded across the road in front of us, his eyes fixed on potential prey. Further on, a badger, head close to the ground, waddled slowly from one hedgerow to the other. As we neared the family home it was the pheasant, startled from her roost, her chicks around her, turning her head to face the oncoming danger, that brought the first tears.
cradled
between two dates
his life
About the Author
Fionnuala Waldron lives in Dublin, Ireland, where she writes long-form poetry, haiku, senryu, and haibun inspired by her life experiences and the natural world. She enjoys painting landscapes and portraits, walking, and listening to music.