My mother’s an emerald green hummingbird at the kitchen
window.
The bird is my dad’s spirit come for the purple heather by
the door.
The door opens onto Rossbeigh Strand on a stone cold spring
morning.
The morning is the song only she can remember, the one with
a banjo.
The four strings are the paths we took from the wild
mountains.
The peaks hide the Black Valley’s secrets and hold up the
sky.
That’s where the clouds become rashers, eggs and one fried
tomato.
Sunrise on the day I left was a bright star shining before
and after.
The past waits by the bridge below, wagging its tail, glad
to see her.
She is the scent of lavender, a needle piercing the Aran
elbow,
the bent knee against the road with the long winding memory.
The memory is a fine bone China cup lifted up and up till
there is no more.
