Poems by Terry Stephen Driscoll

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There was a picture
upon the gallery wall
that critics met with silent tongue.
Children paused in comfort,
while people gazed
where love had long taken refuge.

There she was.
Her wind-whipped face
shone with envied colour,
her eyes forever grateful.
Hands that had caressed
the miracle of a child
and warmed life into
a lamb still-born.

The sun had woken early,
not to be shadowed
by her radiance,
capturing each drop of dew,
reflecting rejoice;
offering the day
as a glittering prize
for she alone to behold.

Trees rustled their applause
in witness, as her song
tenderly filled the air
with melodic mantras’ score.
For these were the days
where once she had walked
in the company of mountains;
the mountains at her side.

This was the day that I found her.
She had fallen from the painting
onto the cold hard stone.
Critics broke their silence,
people walked on by,
children ceased to understand.
For this is a gallery,
where no-one views the floor.

Now she must climb the mountain
that with her once took side;
yet faithful as a friend remains.
Its summit patiently awaits her move
with slopes of liberal route.
Passes hearten fretful steps
in aid of her valiant ascent
The gallery wall? Is kept in infinite reserve.