“From Sleeping to Waking” and other poems by Sofia Bury

From Sleeping to Waking

The white ewer stands,
like a mountain’s snowy peak
in a pink floral basin.
Once used for washing, shaving,
now, an object of beauty,

Paintings hang on the white walls
A bright red abstract, thickly oiled.
A gentle portrait of a young woman,
brown hair cascading loosely.
Stars dance on her arms,
full moon.

Hanging on the door,
a midnight blue dressing gown
falls loosely in folds,
the woman reaches for her gown,
still sleepy.

Downstairs, the brewing coffee,
wakes her fully.
She cups her hands around the mug,
ready for the coming day.




I hear my shallow breathing
rise and fall in the afternoon light.
I lie motionless.
My half-sleeping hearing
speaks of an outside world
where cars whine by,
And a solitary dog barks.

And I am weighed down
by circular thoughts
of weightlessness
of divine purpose suspended
of an aching eternity
trapped in a bruised body.



Evening slipstreams into night’s
black embrace,
As the silver crescent moon rises.
The spangle stars light up the ebony
Mother universe suckles her
sleeping child
in a timeless pieta.

Bearing her wayward offspring,
she commences her regal dance.
Dressed in magnificent golden finery
kingly thread stitched by love,
and woven by the breath of the


The Recycling  Centre

The brown bottle
glides down a green plastic chute
smashing into the broken glass
Like a swimmer sliding
down a water tunnel,
splash hits the waiting water.

Compressed cardboard
tips out of the black plastic bag
tumbling into the waiting container,
as a rubic cube unfolding
in a harlequin of colour,
hitting the cardboard below.

Squashed milk containers
Jostling for position
in the metal cage.
Like ten pins
in a small-town bowling alley
hit the dead ball line.



Life diminishes.
The four walls of a room.
The rooms of a house.
The garden outside the house.
and two people.
getting older.

Many people not seen
but dearly loved.
Every day,
In our hearts.

The closest,
our beloved children.
Each voice in turn,
down the telephone.

How precious, just how precious.
May we never forget,
never forget.

Life truly lived, in absence,
Heart to heart.

© Sofia Bury 2020

Sofia Bury was born and raised in England and is married to an Irishman. They have three adult children and she has lived in Ireland for 45 years.  She started writing fairy stories when the children were small and found a publisher who planned to co-publish six of the stories. Unable to get co-funding, the RTE Guide published one of the stories. She has continued to write short stories. She started to write poetry about ten years ago and is a member of a local poetry group. Sofia has been a painter since the late 1980s. Her work can be seen at Sofia Bury