I want to sound you on this piano, but I brush you into still
life instead. Face you out the window. Rain shakes
loose like a good cry. Some light passes through.

Others call it wide-eyed, but who could not recall your colors?
You blend into the heather, bleed into the hawthorn.
Fluent as this night rain, lapping at my borders.

Composition: not a sail, but the wind. No guillemot,
but its wings. Years, you’ve been at my bedside,
yet I still can’t see where you end.

Nights, you ghost the Connacht Coast, tending to what needs.
I find you in a thicket of gorse, inhaling the sweetness of earth.
You look up to see your face walking towards you.