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.