Sunday Morning, Lorient
There’s a man wiping down the carousel
as if it’s the only thing that matters.
Beneath his white rag flattered panels
blush and flash like fallen sections of sky.
There’s an old man up on his balcony
wrapped like something precious in his white robe.
He’s looking at the church across the square.
The air so still he can hear the choir.
A pine cone rattles to the cobbles.
Jackdaws, and the warm wood of this bench
expanding as though with breath.
Small white roses grow on the square,
their fluttering faces like candles.
I need no other cathedral.
Susan Millar DuMars has published two collections of poetry with Salmon Poetry: Big Pink Umbrella, (2008) and Dreams for Breakfast, (2010). She has published a collection of short stories, Lights in the Distance, with Doire Press in 2010. Susan teaches creative writing to adults and groups with special needs. She lives in Galway, where she and her husband run the Over the Edge readings series. Susan is currently at work on her third poetry collection, The God Thing, to be published early in 2013 by Salmon. She had a poem in the first ever, print version of The Burning Bush.