There’s a divinity in glass
That cannot be ignored,

That finds common expression
In windows and doors.

Also mirrors, windscreens, candlesticks, vases,
Jugs and decanters, lanterns and streetlights,
Bulbs of various shapes and sizes.

Lakes and ponds also assume
This quality on calm days,

And buckets of water.

It’s known of course that certain elements when combined
Will fracture this quintessence of sand,
But it’s also believed that breath cast on broken glass
Can never be erased,

That there are certain acts of oblivion
Conscience must betray.

* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.


Oliver McHugh is currently working as a teacher of French in the Northeast of Ireland. Originally from the western county of Leitrim, he has been writing fiction for a number of years now and is in the process of completing his first book of poetry, The Heart Itself Knows No Time.

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