Nostalgic By Dennis Moriarty

Sunday morning strolling, street corner dreamers

and Sombre bells.

Following in the shadow of my father’s footsteps,

along pavements littered with 

Broken promises and unfulfilled ambitions, past 

a few of his old drinking haunts,

one a coffee shop now, outside which a family 

sits, a skinny latte mummy,

a double espresso daddy and two hot chocolate 

children, IPads and phones,

not a pint glass or smouldering fag between them.

Around the corner

and the church comes to greet me, the church

where he prayed 

each Sunday morning for salvation and a free access

all areas pass to heaven.

Just three people outside now where once there 

might have been thirty,

two old school faces and an earnest young man with

smile on his face and a bible in his hand.

I take the path to the church, open the door and 

look in, can feel his presence 

two rows back, imagine him beckoning me in to sit

beside him and pray for my own salvation.

Without hesitation I slam the door closed and walk

away.

Yes, I am nostalgic, but not that fucking nostalgic.

Dennis Moriarty was born in London, England and now lives in Wales. Married with five grown up offspring Dennis likes walking the dog in the mountains, reading and writing.

In 2017 he won the Blackwater poetry competition and went to county Cork in Ireland to read his work at the international poetry festival. Dennis has had poems featured in many publications including Blue nib, Our poetry archive, Setu bilingual, The passage between and others.