for Eoin


Grey morning garden.

I carry you, sleeping,

Among a congregation of weeds;

Dandelion in wet grass,

The white of new daisies,

Dock leaves and nettles,

Briers that promise dark fruits.


Blackbird, starling, house martin;

Their mad hymn moves beyond the beat of a woodpigeon,

And the breath that carries them breathes on us.


At the door to our house I take one hand from under you,

And as I reach to turn the handle

Three raindrops fall on your face,

Cold as light.

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