Crónán ar chaoinchois
breacbhuí sa gharraí oíche
réaltaí ag spréachadh
buí órga i logaill a chinn.

Meán oíche shleamhain,
é ag fiafraí cúis mo sheasta
sa ghairdín fhuar ag séideadh
toit sa bhealach air.

Comhairlíonn sé mo thiontú
faghairt ina shúile glé
is strainséar ina chríocha mé
cúlaím is fágaim a ríocht.

Amárach, beidh an ghrian ina suí
is tabharfaidh mé a dhúshlán.
Anocht, tarraingím blaincéad
fá mo cheann chun a chuid gártha

a chur ar neamhní.


He purrs on padded feet,
stippled amber in the night
as stars spark gold
from his eyes.

Slick as midnight, he’s asking
what has me in his cold garden
blowing smoke
across his path.

His advice: get lost,
his eyes glint a warning—
I’m the stranger here,
so I retreat beyond his borders.

Tomorrow with the sun in situ,
I’ll throw down a gauntlet,
for now I’ll shroud my head
in blankets, stifle the smart

of his jeers.

 

— Jessica Traynor a d’aistrigh