"Here is a poet, one suspects, for whom writing has never been as effortless, or as effective: the obvious spirit of exhilaration in which these poems have been created is matched by excitement in the reader at encountering a voice that has come entirely into its own. Vona Groarke has taken off." Sinéad Morrissey, Metre
"Groarke's poems often have an air of simplicity, as though they were no more involved than the Irish songs from which many of them are partly descended. But their grounded, private acuteness, their silent insistence on discovering their own methods, make them subtler and more complex than the poems of most of Groarke's more extravagantly ambitious contemporaries." Brian Phillips, Poetry
In the window of the drawing-room
there is a rush of white as you pass
in which the figure of your husband is,
for a moment, framed. He is watching you.
His father will come, of course,
and, although you had not planned it,
his beard will offset your lace dress,
and always it will seem that you were friends.
All morning, you had prepared the house
and now you have stepped out
to make sure that everything
is in its proper place: the railings whitened,
fresh gravel on the avenue, the glasshouse
crystal when you stand in the courtyard
expecting the carriage to arrive at any moment.
You are pleased with the day, all month it has been warm.
They say it will be one of the hottest summers
the world has ever known.
Today, your son is one year old.
Later, you will try to recall
how he felt in your arms —
the weight of him, the way he turned to you from sleep,
the exact moment when you knew he would cry
and the photograph be lost.
But it is not lost.
You stand, a well-appointed group
with an air of being pleasantly surprised.
You will come to love this photograph
and will remember how, when he had finished,
you invited the photographer inside
and how, in celebration of the day,
you drank a toast to him, and summer-time.
