pecking the remains of road kill.
Is a spiders web too fragile a thread
to bear the weight of its maker.
Is an unlit candle.
Is a thimble on an index finger.
Is feet stilled to the rhythm
of a dimmed pulse.
Is a mind unburdened.
Is the voice stolen to darkness,
louder now in my quietened heart.
© Maeve McKenna
Maeve lives in rural Ireland with her husband, three children and two dogs. She writes because she has too. Find some snippets of her writing on Instagram @maevemckenna37
