‘mo ghrá go daingean tu!’

My long close-harboured love!

When I saw you turn
from the hall on your small stately
foot, turn on the arm
of your redhead companion
I knew I must snare you.

When I think of you
from me in that slate
agate city, stranded
on the northern lip of the world,
speaking over the grave
of a man who spent old age
losing love, to take
it back in death, your face
smoors and blacks out;
I cannot remember you
but I would make
midnight noon for you,
and hunt a-nights.