The Journey – by Moira Garland

i.m. my brother Kerry 1944-2006


When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in – Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore


While his chest becomes railway maps of love
I collect booklets of knowledge.
I re-arrange what I know. He knows
what is coming. We all know about bones
and flesh, the time they take.

Each morning cascades of silver tears
on journeys to work turn to double yellow
lines on black tarmac.

I still have the same white Fiat.
The mock leather seats are cracking with age
looking like they’re about to give up.
I won’t let them.





Moira arrived in Leeds via Liverpool, Warrington, Hong Kong, Cheshire, York and Huddersfield. Prior to poetry taking hold she worked as a bottle-packer, graph sorter-outer, medical secretary and lecturer, accompanied by a few fun things: melodeon playing, knitting and a son.