“Dear Eavan” by C. Murray

Eavan Boland (1944-2020)

Break the glass
that holds morning's flame.
Proceed from your room— 

I have become so aware of my hands,
their folding of things
 
of too-sweet smelling fabrics
  (washing machine is crocked)
their patting of panes, pain, 
counter-pane,
administering drugs or massages to
a dying cat—
I chose not to believe your death.

Homebound,
 gardenbound,
the pitch of kids’ voices subdued
by the old ancient
box-hedge. They are out-sung

by sparrows and 
wrens jaunting through, 
skitting overhead,
fearless.
They are always present in
the halls,

their halls.

There is a bright
bright moon tonight.
Blackbirds are always last to sing,
to sound the alert
             
 It is night,
 it is night.

I lit a purple candle for you.
It smells of berries,
of hot-house pinks— 
             

© C. Murray
27.04.2020