Goldhurst Terrace, London, 1975.

Charlie Pettigrew

Memories melt, like snow upon the sea,

yet in our dreams we can retrieve, the shades

who walked Goldhurst Terrace beneath the trees—

Bev, Wee Mac and Skylla, and all who made

a place for us at their table, and glass

in hand, we’d hear their embroidered tales

of bohemian Dublin’s gilded past—

where, against all odds, art would tip the scales.

We had escaped a darker history—

bombings, murders, random brutality.

Goldhurst Terrace became our sanctuary—

a place of lightness, laughter, comity.

Though brazen fate would scatter us like leaves,

we had our time, walking beneath the trees.

Irish born, now living in Barcelona, Charlie Pettigrew began writing poetry in late 2010. He has had numerous poems accepted by literary magazines in Ireland, Scotland, and England.