SONNET FOR MY WIFE AT EIGHT-FIFTEEN

EIGHT-FIFTEEN

Laden with desk diary, handbag, lunch pack, 

raincoat, umbrella, an extra pullover,

my wife is going out the door to work

on a windy morning in late October.

I watch and recommend myself to take

this snap of eight-fifteen across her years

of nine-to-five: the way she bends to put

the key in the ignition, settles herself,

then takes a moment to survey the street.

The engine stirs and she who is my life-

companion, my momentous one, who grows

with the advancing days more weather-proof,

has driven off and left a parking space,

a jackdaw preening on the opposite roof.


© Ciaran O'Driscoll 2014