Gold stars above Leitrim’s cut fields
were almost enough, once.

But last week in Tesco, I heard a cry
that was my baby, my baby.

Once I wore a rainbow scarf
and every shop-front lit up for me.

Once the foam-edged Atlantic
seeded my eyes with the bright

bulbs of lighthouses. Over coffee
and croissants, men would glimpse

my red danger—the breakfast table
of love has wrecked many ships.

Saturn’s rings, an empty attic room,
dust motes in sunlight.

The only truth worth knowing:
that we are alone.

Yet love rises in me like water,
a forest’s dark holy well.

I’ve been to such places, knelt
by their mossy steps leading down.

I’ve seen the wordless tokens
people leave there: coins, beads, shells,

and the silent ghosts
of red rags tied to the trees.