Thainig mo ghra-sa

my love came to me
as I wielded the hot
iron, pressing the creases
from a sleeve, steaming to

the end of the cuff, the
drops sprinkled like rain
on the blue
helps too

and did his hands
encircle her waist
as sun dappled the
greenery she sees

so near and far,
fence-separated from
the rattle-hum of
highway roaring on

Friday evenings, and did
his breath blow lightly
on her neck as the
curtain, breeze-billowed,

embroidered with baby
vegetables, flounced, inhaled
and exhaled,
oh my love, my lost one

and yes, his fingers tapered round her
waist, as if marking rough
measurements of her longitudes
and latitudes, pale geography sparked

with silver,
the mapland of the
brainpan, the unknown territories
yet to be traversed while thick
with sleep

and freshly pressed
shirts hang and move,
almost inperceptibly,
in wind-breath