(for Michael Longley)
In a dream he fled the house
At the Y of three streets
To where a roof of bloom lay hidden
In the affectation of the night,
As only the future can be. Very tightly,
Like a seam, she nursed the gradients
Of his poetry in her head;
She got used to its movements like
A glass bell being struck
With a padded hammer.
It was her own fogs and fragrances
That crawled into verse, the
Impression of cold braids finding
Radiant escape, as if each stanza
Were a lamp that burned between
Their beds, or they were writing
The poems in a place of birth together.
Quietened by drought, his breathing
Just became audible where a little
Silk-mill emptied impetuously into it
Some word that grew with him as a child’s
Arm or leg. If she stood up (easy,
Easy) it was the warmth that finally
leaves the golden pippin for the
Cider, or the sunshine of fallen trees.
from: On Ballycastle Beach, by Medbh Mc Guckian, Published the Gallery Press 1995
Chris Murray 