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.