Deborah McClean




Easter 2013

…and off we went to Burnham-on-Sea,
creeping into the first gaze of the new icy sun.

Oh! I held your hand and
kissed your lips through supermarket sandwiches.
Our newborn skin screamed against the minty sky;
blue raincoats wilting under this thin new light.

Our Wotsits were contraband,
crushed as spitfires circled overhead,
screeching their yellow beaked orders;
their silky shadows licked the trodden grey stones and us.

We left the bag half-eaten:
the last day of Easter
but yet
we walk and love like it is the beginning.



Deborah McClean is an Irish poet living in Bristol. By day, she educates the masses and by night, she weaves her experiences into words. She lives in a house, with a garden and a husband.

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