Can I come in asks
the cat at the door at this
or that but always the same
one door regardless where
on this earth we have
dragged her behind us.
Lough Tay old Wicklow
puddle can I come in
again enter your waters
where a cat might fish
by trailing a hand in
these these and these
small elsewheres
the mill-pond over
the hill the mackerel’s
back of a loch seen
from the car, cold waters
breaking against what
far foreign shore.
A goat scales your sheer
basin Lough Tay and
falling the scree rebounds
over the waves to rattle
around the skull
of whoever is there
and my skull too.
Slow but at last delayed
echoes of blank-eyed
Wicklow goats on
the move reach me
and the skin of that
thin umbrella memory
blowing off lands
again in the over-
flown well of your
crinkled blaze of light.