1 | 2

Describing home

The bay that curves like a moon is a map
of your limbs, your scale and hills.

That white shell, steep at the mark,
is the pool in your hollows.

Those old trees touching the grass
are all the people who take the risk we took.

And the cars so near those knee-high railings
is the fizzing in your irises.

Running the beach at odd angles,
that way of being a person that being

left by a person has taught you.
Leaning on loud music is the yes

I was learning too like kids jumping off
and you walking away on what seemed

so long and white, so made from timber
I could have counted each rung.

You said once the least is the most we can hope for
never mentioning what to want

as half figures under the only lamp
on that quiet night, the Ulster breeze drifting in.

Contents | Previous | Next | About this Author