An Irish Lullaby                                                                                                                   



The edge is what counts.        The fertile egg.

It might be an old man’s fancy         reeling


on the brink of his        wit and desire.

Don’t turn away.  Something is        burning.


A voice nearly extinct        chokes

in your own.         Too-ra-loo-ra-li.


You cannot bear the endless.         Give me

a death and        a new beginning, you cry.  


A tiny world.  Oh,        such a tiny world!

The edge is not clear.       It will never


be clear.         First comes the hush

and then the sigh:         Too-ra-loo-ra-li


Tonight        I will dream of you;

a space will open like a        wound,


your jewellery aglitter        between your breasts.

A space will open and        you’ll be gone


like the Nile in        darkness.

No bird        will evoke your likeness


in song or        in silence.