my husband. Shivered, burned,
& dreamt him dead. Black gloves,
outlaws firing a salute. I too
of bullets, slap in the middle
Just sat in Irish silence for three
bitterness, I prayed for him.
in an old tweed coat, stand equal
the night all sparrow colours,
of the headland & moth embroideries.
I was completely fictional.
in a flurry of birdsong & white
& the tug of a green cricket
I am the writer of the script.
facts, I turned, turn each new leaf,
I have almost forgotten his name.
From of Elephants etc. Wellington: Untold Books, 1990